


Pairing Meme Drabbles

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Beast Wars, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I posted a challenge on Tumblr - </p><p>Give me a pairing and I'll tell you how the following scenarios will play out:</p><p>Fake dating<br/>Bodyswap<br/>Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it<br/>Dark!fic<br/>Secret kinks<br/>Their first kiss<br/>Meeting the parents<br/>Moving in together<br/>A crossover of my choice<br/>An AU of my choice<br/>If you like, another trope/scenario of your choice</p><p>These are my responses, based on the pairings people requested; they from a few lines for each scenario to full-blown drabbles.  Each chapter looks at a different pairing.  Any warnings for individual chapters will appear at the beginning of those chapters, but as a general warning, there is some fairly explicit content, consensual BDSM, and dubcon (if you consider "aliens made them do it" to be dubcon by nature) in many places.</p><p>I've still got quite a few requests to fill, too, so watch this space for updates!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starscream and Red Alert (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for Greyliliy. Thank you again for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:**  Starscream goes completely over the top with cooed endearments and outrageous flirting, relishing every bit of Red’s obvious discomfort.  Because Starscream’s a dick, but we love him.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   Red is initially overwhelmed by the situation, but he pulls himself together and gathers as much information he can from the Nemesis’s computers before he gets found out (which he does, because he’s entirely too sedate and reasonable to actually be Starscream).  Starscream, on the other hand, immediately sees the potential in his situation and wrecks absolute havoc on the Ark, but gets caught trying to flee afterward (he didn’t factor in how much longer it takes to drive somewhere than fly).  If they encounter each other in their swapped states, Starscream tries to convince Red to have sex for the sheer novelty value.  Red is freaked.  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  Red is surprisingly passionate - the outside influence means that he doesn’t have to feel guilt or anxiety over what they’re doing, and so he throws himself into it completely.  Starscream is pretty much the same as ever (he rarely needs an outside push to do something he already wants to do), but is startled and pleased by Red’s lack of inhibition.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   Starscream keeping glitchy, high, suggestible Red Alert as a permanent pet after they successfully steal the Negavator and use it to kill the other Autobots.  Some part of Red knows what he’s done, but he can’t cope with the knowledge so he buries it deep in his mind and lets the glitch take over.  (His actual glitch, I mean, not Starscream. ;))  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Red really likes to be tied up or held down, but there are very, very few bots he trusts enough to ask them to indulge him.  Starscream’s secret kink basically IS Red Alert - he gets off on corrupting Autobots, and the more pure and dutiful, the better.  But Starscream also won’t say no to a few rounds of stern-security-director-and-naughty-prisoner. ;)  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Starscream kissed Red when he was glitching out.  It was surprisingly chaste, mostly away of calming him down/convincing him that Starscream cared.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Let’s say for a second that this is pre-war.  Red Alert’s parents are impressed by, and somewhat awkward around, this very elegant and successful mech their son has brought home, but over the course of the evening they start to wonder whether he isn’t rather a bad influence on poor young Red.  Starscream’s parents icily demand to know what their son thinks he’s doing with a CIVILIAN BUILD GROUNDER, I mean HONESTLY, I thought we raised you better than this, whatever happened to that shuttle you were dating?  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Red has fifteen different codes for the doors and changes them hourly.  Starscream is not amused, but Red points out that it was Starscream’s idea to buy the least secure home EVER - a tower penthouse with 360 degrees of sliding windows.  Whenever Starscream’s trine come over, which is often, Red follows Skywarp around with a coaster, frowning.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   Crossover with your standard zombie flick (or TFP’s “Thirst”, for that matter).  Most of both the Autobot and Decepticon forces are wiped out, and Starscream and Red have to team up (for real, this time) to fight the zombies and find a cure.  I like the idea of these two honestly and soberly working together.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  Human AU in space - hotshot starfighter pilot Starscream and by-the-book, suspcious base controller Red Alert find love in the storage locker.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  I’d be interested in seeing a postwar, Autobots-win scenario where Red Alert is Starscream’s jailer.  A really intimate, single-room story, just Starscream fucking with Red’s mind as much as he can from behind bars, while plotting his escape…




	2. Megatron and Soundwave (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for War-of-Wrath. Thanks again for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:**  Megatron is utterly unfazed.  I mean, he’s MEGATRON.  Is anyone going to snicker at the sight of him holding hands with his 3IC?  Not if they want their sparks to remain intact.  But he is concerned for Soundwave’s comfort, and reassures him in private that while they have to maintain the illusion, he’s not going to push Soundwave to do anything he doesn’t want to do.  Soundwave’s main problem is remembering that he’s supposed to look like an  _equal_ partner.  He’s great at doing things like buying Megatron bouquets of cyber-lilies and surprising him with foot rubs, but not so good at receiving favours or asking for things.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Probably pretty tame, actually - Soundwave in Megatron’s body issues whatever commands Megatron tells (“advises”) him to, while they get Shockwave to hunt down a cure on the sly.  What I think would be fun (and ultimately kind of sweet) would be Megatron having to dock with Soundwave’s cassettes, and finding himself troubled that Soundwave’s tender feelings for them are bleeding over into Megatron’s consciousness (or at least that’s the explanation he tells himself ).  Also very interesting would be if Soundwave’s telepathy transferred to Megatron.  Soundwave would be totally adrift, whereas Megatron would be like, “I can’t believe I didn’t order you to use this ALL THE TIME on EVERYONE!  I’m going to abuse the shit out of this!”  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  Generous, sensual, and affectionate during; lots of awkwardly avoided eye contact afterwards.  Megatron spends weeks trying not to stare at Soundwave’s aft and fantasise about a possible repeat performance.  Soundwave spends weeks trying not to psychically pick up on Megatron’s fantasies.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  Soundwave is the one behind the whole Decepticon empire.  He uses his telepathic powers to control Megatron, who is aware, but helpless to do anything about it.  For added threesomey fucked-up-ness, Megatron’s entire relationship with Starscream is because Soundwave fancies Starscream, and is using Megatron as a proxy/conduit.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  This would only be a secret for a Decepticon, but Megatron occasionally likes sex to be gentle, as a break from the intensity he has with Starscream.  He likes to pamper and be pampered by someone he utterly trusts.  Soundwave’s sound/music kink is probably no secret, but what few people know is that he has a thing for Megatron’s voice in particular, and that he often likes to be blindfolded so that he can concentrate completely on that voice.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Soundwave retracted his mask to kiss Megatron’s hand the first time he pledged his loyalty.  Their first kiss on the mouth was after Megatron invited Soundwave into his bed for the first time; it was Soundwave’s show of acceptance/submission.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Depending on which episode you believe, you could argue that Megatron’s parents are the Constructicons.  So Soundwave probably got off on the wrong foot there.  You shouldn’t go around calling your boyfriend’s parents “inferior” to their faces.   
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Megatron finds it soothing to come home to Soundwave working quietly away at his computer in the corner of their bedroom.  He finds it significantly less soothing that to reach Soundwave, he usually has to dodge Rumble and Frenzy (who are merrily fingerpainting his spare cannon), avoid Buzzsaw pecking at him and demanding treats, and trip over Ravage, who likes to nap in dark and inconvenient places.  Like the tops of stairs.  Needless to say, child-rearing techniques form the bulk of Megatron’s and Soundwave’s arguments.  (“Cassettes:  naturally high-spirited!  Whoopee cushion:  sign of affection for stepfather!”)  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With Pacific Rim.  Yes, this would require giant robots being inside even more giant robots, but bear with me.  I want to see Megatron and Soundwave discovering that they’re drift compatible, and syncing their minds in combat.  (Which is entirely different from Megatron and Soundwave discovering that they’re Drift compatible, which is a threesome I also want to see.)  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  Megatron and Soundwave meet in prison, escape, and go on the run together (preferably handcuffed to each other); OR a bit of a rank reversal, with Megatron as a field agent/assassin and Soundwave as his handler.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  Pre-war Cybertron:  Soundwave as a powerful black market information broker, being slowly seduced by the ideology of this upstart new leader.




	3. Bumblebee and Soundwave (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Tumblr user F1ukemeister24. Thank you for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:**   Bumblebee automatically assumes that Soundwave is going to suck at this, and takes over directing the “scene” so that it looks natural - he’s the infiltration expert, after all.  Soundwave is highly amused, and takes instructions for a bit, before turning the tables and starting to woo Bee, presenting him with romantic gifts and gestures that are actually very well chosen for him.  Bumblebee is equal parts swept off his feet and EXTREMELY suspicious.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Soundwave is NOT happy - he’s tiny, he has to pretend to be cheerful all the time,  _and_ he’s expected to let that human get its weird human germs inside him? - but he bucks up and does his job as a spy, expertly hacking the Ark’s computers.  If he’s caught, he pretends to be Bumblebee struggling with and “defeating” some kind of mind control, so that he can string the Autobots along for a longer period.  Bumblebee is also skillfully gathering information on the Nemesis, but he’s finding the experience more terrifying than annoying, and he’s especially keen to escape before it gets to the point where he can’t avoid letting his cassettes dock, as that will blow his cover.  Given those two scenarios, it’s likely that Bumblebee arrives back at the Ark, as Soundwave, before Soundwave as Bumblebee leaves.  Knowing the Autobots, they probably make them have a race or something.  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  Since they have to frag, both of them have a stubborn desire to prove - not only to the other, but to the other’s faction - that they’re actually pretty good at this, and not as inexperienced/cold as the rumours say.  Before they realise, they end up getting really into pleasuring each other.  Each of them tries to bring it up at some point later in order to throw the other off his game, but both of them are secretly rather proud of how much the other enjoyed it.  Soundwave has recordings.  He will never show them to anyone.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  Soundwave loses one (or all) of his cassettes, and his mind basically snaps.  He ends up capturing Bee as a replacement.  You see, Bumblebee is so small and cute… and he’s  _already_ trained to gather information… and he forms strong bonds with others… why, it’s almost like he’s a cassette!  Soundwave just has to push a little bit  _here_ , and  _here_ , and  _here_ , breaking his captive’s mind and body down bit by bit, alternating cruelty with startling sweetness, and then Bee will realise he belongs to Soundwave, and he’ll be ready for reformatting.  And then everything will be like it used to be.  Yes.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Bumblebee likes to dominate.  And more surprisingly, he’s  _good_ at it:  perceptive, patient, filthy, and utterly in control.  Soundwave, to his shame, sometimes enjoys submitting to the little Autobot.  Other times, he likes chaining Bumblebee to giant speakers and blasting music, watching Bee writhe in pleasure at the vibrations.  (Oh, wait, that’s a  _canon_  kink.)  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Soundwave managed to corner Bumblebee while Bee was on a spying mission on the  _Nemesis_.  Bee suddenly grabbed Soundwave by the shoulders, planted a nice wet one on his mask, vaulted over his head, and was driving off while Soundwave was still processing what the hell had happened.  Gratifyingly for Soundwave, Bee was even  _more_ startled when Soundwave turned the same trick on him.   
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Bumblebee’s mother makes Soundwave energon cookies and sits talking to him for hours, trying to “bring the poor boy out of his shell”.  (“Mom, he’s  _fine_!”  “He’s too skinny, dear!  He shouldn’t work so much, it isn’t healthy for him!  And anyway, at least Laserbeak appreciates my cookies!”  Needless to say, the cassettes all take to Mama Bee like ducks to… well, dispensers of high-quality duck treats.)  Soundwave’s parents initially mistake Bumblebee for a new cassette.  When the misunderstanding is cleared up, they become frosty and believe me, you haven’t seen frosty until you’ve seen Mama and Papa Soundwave entertaining some nobody who is clearly no fit match for  _their_ son.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Bumblebee is pleasantly surprised that life with Soundwave is a lot livelier than he imagined - not only does he love playing with the cassettes, but there’s constantly music on.  Things get a little awkward when Bee’s friends visit; Optimus and Soundwave can be distantly polite to each other, but Soundwave and Jazz just can’t stop sniping at each other over tea and biscuits.  It’s best when Prowl tags along with Jazz, as Bee and Jazz can then chatter a mile a minute to each other, while Prowl and Soundwave slip off to the kitchen to talk with resigned affection about their impossible mates.   
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  With  _The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ I want to see Bumblebee and Soundwave in full-on spy vs. spy mode, with all the suave antics and ridiculous gadgets thrown in.  Also, I want to see Soundwave facing off with Ilya Kuryakin and I don’t even care how little sense that makes.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  Okay, I almost never say this, but this scenario is actually ripe for a band AU.  Soundwave writes the music and plays an instrument; Bumblebee is the uber-popular frontman.  Bee cares about making his fans happy, Soundwave cares about the purity of the music.  They clash, but out of that clash comes an astonishing creativity.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: **  _Got_ to be DeceptiBee.  Bumblebee joins the ‘Cons instead of the ‘Bots, and becomes Soundwave’s top intelligence agent; Soundwave finds himself developing a troubling soft spot for the bold, personable young spy.




	4. Ambulon and First Aid (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request.

  * **Fake dating:**  Ambulon is getting a ton of flack for his ex-Decepticon status from the rest of the  _Lost Light_ crew, and First Aid - who, by contrast, is instantly popular - suggests that if they pretend to be a couple, it will get the others to back off Ambulon a bit.  Ambulon is about twelve different flavours of awkward over this.  He’s not very duplicitous by nature, and First Aid used to work under him, and now he’s Ambulon’s superior and  _Primus this is weird_.  First Aid perceives how much Ambulon is struggling and makes a point of going gently with him, respecting his space.  That said, he’s not above grabbing Ambulon and giving him a snog in the middle of Swerve’s bar when Ambulon is completely failing to pretend convincingly.   
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Interestingly, they both start understand each other’s pain a little better - Ambulon finds out what it’s like to live with a malfunctioning, probably aching t-cog, and First Aid has the phantom pains experienced by an orphaned gestalt member (that’s my headcanon, at least).  But socially, their experiences couldn’t be more different.  First Aid suddenly finds himself isolated and distrusted, while Ambulon is absolutely high on his new position:  people actually listen to him, and want to spend time with him.  That barely happened before his reformatting, and almost never since.  It’s no surprise that when a cure is discovered, Ambulon contemplates extreme measures to avoid having to give First Aid’s body back…  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  I think they go at it like starving mechs.  Both have them have been lonely for a long time, and I can picture First Aid having a bit of a crush on Ambulon, despite (or maybe because of) their contentious working relationship.  (Ambulon might feel the same if he hadn’t been so caught up in his love/hate relationship with Pharma for so long.)  Afterward, they both feel embarrassed, and Ambulon’s mood in particular takes a nosedive, as the encounter makes him feel even lonelier (“he doesn’t wants me unless he’s hyped up on sex pollen”).  I think First Aid would be the one to ultimately broach the subject after several weeks of awkwardly avoiding eye contact, and suggest that if they had that much fun once… maybe they could give it a go again…?  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  Turns out that the real reason the DJD let the medical facility on Delphi operate wasn’t because Pharma desperately bought them off; it was because they had a spy, a sixth DJD member working in the Autobot ranks.  Sweet, innocent little First Aid turns on Ambulon as soon as they get to the  _Lost Light_.  He tells Ambulon in no uncertain terms that he’s a traitor, and he belongs to First Aid body and spark now.  First Aid is the CMO’s beloved successor; Ambulon is a grouchy, awkward ex-‘Con with a mismatched paint job.  If he tries to report First Aid,  _no one will believe him._ And so begins an unending nightmare:  nightly torture and abuse, with First Aid crooning Ambulon’s sins in his ear while tearing strips off him or hooking him up to about a million volts, intermingled with days spent trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  You know how First Aid has a bit of a thing for Autobot badges?  Well, it extends to all kinds of clothing and insignia, especially those that denote rank:  chains, capes like Rodimus’s, even crowns.  Since he’s quite handy, First Aid makes replicas himself out of discarded machinery (like, ship parts, not body parts, eww), and he loves playing dress-up in the bedroom.  Ambulon - Ambulon likes pain.  Specifically, he loves when First Aid rips patches of his flaking paint off.  It feels like he’s being punished and freed all at once.  After sex, though, when the paint needs to be reapplied, having First Aid pamper him by lovingly redoing his detailing makes Ambulon melt.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  It was back on Delphi; First Aid found Ambulon lingering in the supply closet, trying to hold himself together, after a particularly vicious bout of verbal abuse from Pharma.  First Aid screwed up his courage and put his arms around Ambulon, and Ambulon ended up kissing him on the mask, half in gratitude and half out of a desperate need for comfort… and then First Aid retracted his mask, and things took a much steamier turn.  They didn’t talk about it for the longest time afterwards, until they were on the  _Lost Light_ and the spectre of Pharma was gone.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  I like to think of Ambulon’s parents as this respectable middle-class couple who are delighted that their son has met this nice doctor (!), who is a good influence and will help keep poor Ambooboo away from that nasty crowd of delinquents who turned him into a leg.  First Aid’s parents are remarkably accepting, to Ambulon’s surprise and pleasure; he and Mama Aid bond forever when he runs off to their restroom to try to do something about his flaking paint, and she slips a little can of top coat under the door without having to be asked.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  The major bone of contention is, of course, First Aid’s  ~~massive~~   _perfectly reasonable_ collection of Autobot badges, which Ambulon claims seem to follow him around the room with their eyes.  Drift insists on helping them get the place set up so that he can make sure the feng shui allows the energy of their home to flow.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  With  _House MD_.  Because House would be utterly unfazed by giant alien robot doctors.  He’d just immediately put them to work testing for lupus.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  Since turnabout is fair play, I’d love to see what would have happened if Ambulon were a Decepticon medic, and First Aid defected to join the ‘Cons.  Ambulon taking First Aid under his wing, helping him fit in, gently but firmly instructing him in the more ruthlessly pragmatic ways of Decepticon field medicine, protecting him from the others - it could be fascinating.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: ** Just for fun, Ambulon/First Aid as a really swoony Victorian love story between a grim but deeply wounded doctor with a mysterious, dark past and his sweet, quietly brilliant nurse.  “Oh,  _Doctor_ ,” would be uttered in breathy tones a lot.  There could even be a crotchety older mentor, and a dashing head of the clinic who has a thing for the nurse, and who ends up having ties to body-snatching rings in London’s criminal underworld.




	5. Dominus Ambus and Rewind (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request.

  * **Fake dating:**  This is Ambus’s idea - it’s a form of political protest, demonstrating that bots at the bottom of the ratioist ladder are equal to those at the top.  Ambus is proudly defiant about it in public, wrapping his arm around Rewind and telling him to hold his head high, because he’s worth ten of those bigots giving them disdainful looks… but in private, Ambus turns quite shy about the whole thing.  He’s also very old-fashioned about courtship, for all his progressiveness, and wants to take Rewind to fancy restaurants and lavish him with gifts.  Rewind, by contrast, finds the public attention weird and unnecessary, but Ambus’s private awkwardness endearing.   
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Ambus is initially excited to find out what conditions are really like for lower-ranking mecha.  When he actually encounters the shit Rewind has to deal with on a daily basis, he ends up feeling miserable - both for himself and, more so, for his friend - but still believes that the experience is a valuable one for an activist to have.  Rewind is absolutely  _high_ on the power of Ambus’s frame.  He loves being looked up to and taken seriously - that is, when he can be coaxed out of his gorgeous new alt mode at all (I’m not sure what Dominus Ambus turns into, but it’s clearly not a memory stick; I’m thinking maybe jet).  He does get an unpleasant shock, though, when he starts being invited to all sorts of secret, high-level meetings…  _and realises he has no in-built camera to record them._   *cue screaming*  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  The actual experience is startlingly, mutually passionate - the scorching hot UST that they’ve both been suppressing because of the power differences between them comes rushing out, with Rewind practically leaping on Ambus.  Afterwards:  oh, God, all the embarrassment.   _All of it_.  Ambus is mortified that he slept with an employee, even though he didn’t have any choice, while Rewind feels like he did something practically sacrilegious.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  Dominus Ambus is passionate about winning equal rights for the lowest-ranking mechs by proving that they’re just as worthy as those above them.  What better proof than to show the world a prodigy of tremendous intelligence and skill, who just happens to be a memory stick?  So Ambus finds Rewind - who’s unquestionably bright and talented, but nothing all that special - and takes him in, feeding him on Ambus’s own high-quality fuel.  Ambus’s high-quality, _drugged_ fuel.  Once Rewind is high and suggestible, Ambus begins to… enhance him, improving his strength (which we’ve seen is disproportionate to his size), his intelligence, and his memory.  Among many other changes, Rewind’s drive to collect information becomes a gnawing compulsion that won’t leave him alone.  He doesn’t realise the full extent of what Ambus did to him until after Ambus disappears and the drugs wear off, but once that happens, the horror of it hits home.  Rewind can’t stop looking for Ambus, _because he can’t sleep until he knows that fucker is dead._   (Of course, when James Roberts is involved, darkfic also = speculation about future plotlines. :P)  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Rewind is just discovering his dominant side at this point, and it’s kind of thrilling and scary at once, especially since he wants to dominate  _Ambus_ , whom he practically worships.  Luckily for Rewind, Ambus has a humiliation kink.  He longs to be able to put all the responsibilities and dignity of his House and his position aside and be pushed to his knees and called a dirty little slut - and Rewind is all too happy to oblige.  Also, Ambus has a definite size kink.  He’s ashamed of it - it feels like he’s objectifying the people he’s there to help - and he  _is_ attracted to Rewind for a lot of other reasons, too, but it’s still there.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Ambus is down in the dumps after an important campaign goes belly-up, and feels like he’s failed Rewind more than anyone else.  Rewind, ever comforting, climbs up into his lap, retracts his mask, and kisses Ambus.  It comes as a total shock - Ambus was always too polite to even  _ask_ whether Rewind had a mouth under there! - and Ambus is doubtful at first, all too aware that he’s in a position of power over Rewind in any number of ways.  Rewind has no such doubts, and takes charge, showing a suddenly bashful Ambus what Rewind likes.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  I imagine the heads of the House of Ambus as very posh, old-money types who fancy themselves quite socially aware and progressive, writing huge cheques to various Worthy Causes, but who balk at actually associating too closely with the people they purport to help - the, “I have plenty of friends who are X, but I wouldn’t let my son marry one,” type.  They are quietly appalled when Dominus brings home a minibot, and one from the lowest tier in the ratioist hierarchy, to boot.  “We’re sure that - oh, what was your little friend’s name, dear?  Anyway, we’re sure that he’s lovely, but he just doesn’t… fit it with the rest of the family.  You understand.”  (Minimus Ambus is just pleased that he’s not the one in trouble, for once.  That is, until he gets drunk and hits on Rewind at a family function - something that embarrasses him all the way up until the day Rewind joins the  _Lost Light_  crew.)  Rewind’s parents go into an absolute panic over the thought of a prominent figure like Dominus Ambus visiting their humble abode.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Rewind is pleasantly surprised that Ambus not only invites him to move into Ambus’s mansion, but sets aside a suite of rooms so that Rewind can have his own (minibot-scaled) space.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  With  _Star Trek._ Dominus Ambus is probably a way better ambassador of the Cybertronian race than the warring factions who usually end up making first contact with humans.  He could sit on the Federation Council and impart his wisdom.  (And be voiced by George Takei, just to blow everyone’s minds further.)  Rewind would have a blast running around and learning about all these new alien races (most of whom are even shorter than he is!).  He could end up being a roving interplanetary journalist, making documentaries about Vulcan and Cardassia for the folks back home.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  Dominus Ambus, Consulting Detective.  Ambus is a languid, eccentric aristocrat who takes up detection as a hobby - sort of like Lord Peter Wimsey with Rewind as a short, mouthy Bunter.  A love triangle springs up when the private detective’s methods clash with those of the police, and particularly a certain Detective Tumbler…  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: ** I’d love to see an AU where the functionists never came to power, and there’s a violent revolution instead against the ratioists.  Rewind joins the rebels and rises high in their ranks, while Dominus Ambus remains a moderate, trying to call on both sides to compromise.  Ultimately, the rebels take Iacon, leaving Rewind to decide what should be done about his former boss.




	6. Starscream and Knock Out (TFP)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Shafau. Thank you again for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:**  Knock Out has a blast playing this up:  strutting around, slyly groping Starscream, using ridiculous endearments and innuendos.  (“Is that clear, Doctor?”  “You got it, Commander Cutie Buns.”)  Starscream is livid… until it occurs to him to turn the tables, and use the excuse of maintaining their cover to flirt outrageously with Knock Out, getting him as turned on and flustered as possible.  This setup is the Mutually Assured Destruction of seduction.  If the fake dating was originally conceived as a way to make someone else (Breakdown, Megatron) jealous, it backfires spectacularly, as the target is enjoying the show too much to be upset.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Starscream actually has more of a taste for mad science than Knock Out does for command, and happily runs around playing with Knock Out’s toys (both his lab equipment and his test subjects, if Silas is still kicking around), while Knock Out discovers that he has absolutely no idea how to coordinate an attack - especially an aerial one.  Knock Out does get a secret kick out of flight, though, for all his defence of his frame… and Starscream secretly enjoys the feeling of ground under his tires, although you’d have to torture him to get him to admit it.  Naturally, they have sex in their swapped state.  Neither of them would pass up the opportunity to literally fuck themselves.   
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  They’re both highly sexual and pretty pragmatic, so they basically treat this as an unexpected work perk and throw themselves into it.  The sex is intensely competitive, but also playful and even affectionate.  There’s a lot of mutual ribbing afterwards about how much the other enjoyed it, but both of them look back on it as a fun night… and it’s not all that long before Knock Out suggests an encore.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  When Silas died, Knock Out lost his favourite toy… that is, until he joins the Autobots, which he does on one condition.  If they take Starscream alive, he belongs to Knock Out, no questions asked.  The ‘Bots agree, and a few weeks later, a grief-stricken, enraged-to-the-point-of-madness Starscream is thrown into Knock Out’s lab in chains.  They’re delighted to see each other… but for very,  _very_ different reasons.  Starscream’s hoping that his old friend can break him out.  Knock Out, though, is more interested in _breaking_ him.  He’s got so many experiments saved up that he’s just dying to try.  Those pretty wings look sensitive; let’s start with those…  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Knock Out is a dyed-in-the-metal exhibitionist.  He’d happily let almost anyone watch, from Breakdown to a detachment of Eradicons, and his most embarrassing fantasy is to have Soundwave observe and record a session.  In the meantime, several of the beds in the med bay have mirrors above them, “to make it easier to see what he’s doing during surgery”.  (Spoiler alert:  That is not what they are mostly used for. )  Starscream likes it rough, and takes special delight in marking up his lover’s pristine paint job.  He’s good enough to help buff it out afterwards, though.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  This happens while Megatron is comatose, and Starscream is in temporary command.  One moment, Starscream and Knock Out are yelling at each other over Knock Out’s unauthorised street racing, and the next, they’re suddenly kissing, clawing frantically at each other.  Afterwards, each of them swears that the other actually made the first move.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Well, if you thought that Starscream could be haughty about grounders, you should meet his parents, given that they’re  _Seeker royalty_ (in my headcanon, at least).  They take one look at their precious son’s common boyfriend with his gauche paint job, and they unleash hell.  The visit ends with the entire family flying off in different directions in an almighty huff.  Starscream eventually realises that Knock Out has no independent way of getting down from a tower built for flyers, and goes back to fetch him, grumbling.   Knock Out’s parents, by contrast, are poor - I think that’s one reason Knock Out is so obsessed with the refinement of his speech and appearance - but they’re no fonder of this highfalutin Seeker than Starscream’s parents are of Knock Out.  Let’s just say that Knock Out and Starscream don’t tend to travel home for the holidays.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  This strikes both of them as a great idea at first - no more sneaking around the corridors of the  _Nemesis_ in the middle of the night, and Starscream’s quarters are luxurious compared to Knock Out’s.  The problem is that both of them get extremely prickly when they’re in a bad mood, and since they’re so similar in temperament, they tend to pick up on and mirror each other’s anger or frustration, until it becomes a nasty downwards spiral.  Living together is great when they’re happy, but doesn’t give them anywhere to get away from each other when they’re fed up with one another.  Eventually, they convince Megatron to let them build a connecting door between the two officers’ suites instead, so that they each have their own space.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  I’ve mentioned before wanting a  _Game of Thrones/Transformers_ crossover, but THIS is the perfect opportunity.  I think it would work best as a human AU crossover.  Starscream and Knock Out were made to be elegant, scheming courtiers, plotting murders and having loads of illicit sex in the castle at King’s Landing.   
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  1920s Chicago.  Starscream is an up-and-coming crime boss who wants to rule the underworld; Knock Out is the sharply dressed hitman he hires to help him get there.  They have to outmanoeuvre rival bosses like Ol’ One-Eye and Queenie Spider, and keep one step ahead of Police Commissioner Pax and his crew.  But when the chips are down, where does Knock Out’s loyalty really lie?  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: ** I’d be really interested to see a reversal in rank with these two.  What if Starscream were considerably younger, and came to the Decepticon army as a raw recruit, rather than an established warrior - and what if Knock Out took a shine to the newbie and decided to show him the ropes?



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the lesson to be drawn here is that I have way too much of a thing for darkfic involving twisted medical experiments.


	7. Drift and Ratchet (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request.

  * **Fake dating:**  Ratchet’s fond of the kid - he  _is_  - but he’s never been closer to strangling him than right now.  Drift is completely overdoing this, calling Ratchet “Beloved” and “Other Half of My Spark” and nuzzling up against his chest at the most inconvenient and embarrassing moments - and that’s without even mentioning the thousand and one little models of Earth flora and fauna, folded out of thin sheets of metal and left lovingly on Ratchet’s doorstep.  Ratchet, of course, has no choice but to smile soppily until this interminable mission is over, and display all the folded offerings around the medbay (except for the ones Drift calls “cranes”; they remind him of Laserbeak and he refuses to have them around).  But Ratchet gets some small measure of revenge by affectionately fondling Drift’s ear finials in public; watching Drift go from playacting to genuinely flustered and overheated is always satisfying.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  Needless to say, Ratchet is  _pissed_ , and a little panicked - the best surgical hands in the galaxy are now attached to someone with no medical training!  Once First Aid reassures him that he and Ambulon are more than up to handling any emergencies, though, Ratchet has to admit that there are some perks to suddenly having a much younger and more capable body.  Drift, on the other hand, feels completely disoriented and fretful, unable to fight the way he’s used to, and finding it hard to adapt his usual meditation techniques to this strange new body.  It gives him a chill to remember how close he got to signing away his own body to a relinquishment clinic.  Ratchet eventually returns Drift’s body three days later.  It smells of sex and high grade and has a mysterious new tattoo in an unmentionable area.  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  Ratchet is both embarrassingly turned on and deeply uncomfortable about the idea of sleeping with a patient.  Drift isn’t the least bit uncomfortable, but his straightforward attitude only makes it worse, as it hints to Ratchet that Drift is used to this, meaning he’s had to have sex before when he didn’t want to (maybe in order to buy circuit boosters in the Dead End).  Ratchet hates the prospect of being yet another mech to take advantage of Drift, even though neither of them have much choice.  Drift ends up taking control of the encounter, determined to prove to Ratchet that he wants this and enjoys it; and Ratchet responds by trying his best to make it good for Drift, lavishing attention on his frame.  The sex is a lot slower and more sensual than you’d imagine with this setup.  Afterwards, though, Drift feels rejected when Ratchet starts avoiding him in the corridors out of embarrassment.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  Shh, Ratchet.  Shh shh shhhhh.  
  
I’m so happy I’ve finally found you again.  Did I already say that?  I’m sorry - it’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to talk to.  I must have tracked the  _Lost Light_ for months before I caught up with you.  I missed you, Ratchet.  You more than anyone.  
  
I’m sorry; I know the restraints are digging in, but I’ll let you out of them soon.  I just had to make sure you wouldn’t try to stop me, you see?  You’re such a kind mech, Ratchet; you always were.  And I knew you’d feel bad for them.  That’s why I didn’t want to let you watch, but you insisted.  Oh,  _Ratchet._  
  
You understand why I had to do it, don’t you?  You understand that it was justice?  Don’t worry, I made it quick.  For all of them except Chromedome and Brainstorm, and Rodimus, of course; but  _they_ stayed silent and let me take all the blame, and  _he_ cast me out to ease his own guilt.  That’s not the way Autobots are supposed to act, Ratchet.  That’s not what the heroes do.  So they earned what they got, but the rest of the crew barely felt a thing.  
  
Hush.  Once you’ve calmed down, I’ll let you out, and we can clean up the…  _mess_ , and then we’ll set a new course.  What have you always wanted to see, Ratchet?  We’ll go wherever you like.  
  
We are going to have the most wonderful adventures, my friend.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Ratchet loves having his hands massaged and sucked - and there’s an extra, thrilling layer of wrongness to it now that he has Pharma’s hands (which Drift got for him).  Drift likes being tied up sometimes, partly because he’s more aware than anyone else that he still has a very dark, violent streak, and it reassures him to know that he won’t be able to hurt his partner if he loses control.  One of the most cherished things Ratchet does for him, though, is let him know from time to time that Drift’s actually _allowed_ to let that side of himself off the leash in bed, that Ratchet trusts him and wants to see all of him.  That’s a kink so secret Drift would never have dared to ask for it, if Ratchet hadn’t brought it up first.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  It happens on Delphi.  Ratchet is holding Drift’s hand to try and comfort him as Drift deteriorates:  he can’t cure Drift, can’t even take the pain away, and he refuses to help him die, so this is the only thing left he can do.  After Ratchet tells Drift he won’t give him a mercy kill, all of Drift’s joking and stoicism melts away, and he looks up at Ratchet with an expression that’s so utterly  _lost_ that Ratchet nearly breaks.  Instead, he leans in and kisses the trails of rust on Drift’s cheeks, very gently.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Drift’s parents are… shall we say, not the most involved.  Ratchet only met them once.  He tracked them down after Drift wound up in his clinic, intending to beg them to intervene and help their son.  His long career had prepared him for the many and varied responses that the families of addicts use to cope, but this was something else:  he’s never, before or since, met anyone so genuinely, narcissistically uninterested in whether their own child lived or died.  Drift never found out about Ratchet’s trip to see his parents, given that he himself never had any contact with them again.  Ratchet still can’t think about that night without wanting to strangle something.  
  
Ratchet’s own parents are long dead, but one night, maudlin and a little tipsy, Ratchet pulls out old pictures of them to show to Drift.  Drift doesn’t say anything, and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking as he watches the images of a close, loving family flash across the screen, but he does curl up next to Ratchet and rest his head on his shoulder until long after the pictures are put away.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  This lasts for roughly 36 hours before Ratchet storms out and declares that he’d rather sleep in the shuttle bay.  The words, “If he’s not swinging those damned swords around, he’s chanting, and if he’s not chanting, he’s babbling about the beauty of existence…” float back through the corridor to a bemused Drift (and everyone else in earshot).  The fact that Drift cleared out most of Ratchet’s possessions and put them in cold storage so that their space would be more “tranquil” probably didn’t help.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  With M*A*S*H.  I can just see Ratchet unwinding from eighteen hours of surgery by getting drunk on Hawkeye’s homemade moonshine.   And Drift could be an MP trying to make up for the horrific things he’s done in battle by protecting a medical unit.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  I actually think that Drift would make a really good police detective (his aborted questioning of Cyclonus aside ).  He’s smart, subtle, and very perceptive.  So:  Detective Drift, a brilliant young investigator who’s also a bit of a dark horse.  Some of the other cops are reluctant to work with him, since he’s an ex-‘Con - whoops, sorry, ex- _con_  - but there’s no denying his uncanny ability to sympathise with the criminal mind.  Ratchet is a grizzled ex-Army surgeon turned coroner, who grouses at the detective constantly but often slips him vital, off-the-record information.  Drift has a raging crush on him, but he’s patient; one day, he’ll convince Ratchet to let him take him out for coffee after the night shift.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: ** Ohhhh, I _need_ to see what would happen if Ratchet ever encountered Deadlock, and recognised the young mech he once saved in the Dead End.  Especially if Ratchet were taken prisoner by the Decepticons.  *shivers*




	8. Ratchet and Optimus Prime (TFP)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request. Warning for graphic violence.

  * **Fake dating:**  Okay, let’s face it - we all know that Ratchet is going to have to take charge here, because Optimus is going to be  _so amazingly awkward_  about it that his awkward can be seen from space.  Ratchet doesn’t want to push his friend to do anything he’s uncomfortable with, but he finds himself having to stage-manage Optimus every step of the way:  “Optimus?  Darling?  Don’t you want to give me a kiss before you head out to battle?”  “Oh, um, of course… sweetspark.”  “Ow!  Retract your battle mask first,  _honey._ "  "Sorry!"  I just hope that they’re not doing this for some reason vital to the war effort, because not only is no one remotely fooled, but Megatron has Soundwave record the "couple" so that he can rewatch the footage and laugh his ass off later.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**  As with Drift and Ratchet, this is likely to cause a panic if any of the Autobots require medical care; Optimus takes direction well, but that only goes so far when surgery is involved, and when he’s in Optimus’s body, Ratchet’s hands are simply too large and untrained for him to operate himself.  Barring a medical emergency, though, Optimus is able to adjust quite well.  It’s simply a matter of adopting battle tactics that work better with his smaller, boxier frame, and Optimus has millions of years’ worth of military experience to draw on.  As for Ratchet - Ratchet takes to his new body a little  _too_ well.  He joins the Autobots on the battlefield, since it would be ridiculous to leave their most powerful soldier at home (and to keep the Decepticons from figuring out anything’s wrong).  His new strength makes him reckless and vicious - think SynthEn x 1000.  (And, just like he did when hyped up on SynthEn, he immediately starts hitting on everything that moves.   _Everything_.  Given that he’s in Optimus’s body, this is doubly awkward… especially when Megatron almost takes him up on it.)  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**  Optimus feels terrible about the prospect of having sex with an unwilling subordinate, and is desperate to find any means of counteracting the pollen/getting around the fuck-or-die scenario - so desperate that Ratchet actually starts to feel faintly insulted.  When it becomes clear that there’s no alternative, Optimus is deeply apologetic, and Ratchet is very tender with him, trying both to reassure Optimus that the situation isn’t his fault, and to hide that he himself is shamefully excited about getting to sleep with his chaste and untouchable Prime.  The encounter starts off sweet and a little shy, but quickly grows passionate.  Both mechs end up babbling out their affection and attraction for each other in the heat of the moment.  Afterwards, Ratchet screws up his courage and asks Optimus if they could make this something permanent.  Optimus, in a panic, whisks him off to the lab to test for residual sex pollen, until Ratchet yells at him enough to convince him that the medic really is himself; then Optimus happily agrees.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**  This is going to come as a shock, but Optimus Prime isn’t a perfect leader.  Sometimes, he puts his worry for his friends above the cause; sometimes, he makes mistakes.  And sometimes, he gets these little… urges.  
  
It’s not his fault, really.  It’s the stress.  I warned him ages ago that it would consume him, if he didn’t find some way to let it out.  It’s no easy thing, being a legend, being a saint.  Being the bearer of the Matrix and the avatar of all that it means to be an Autobot.  So I was actually pleased when I first noticed, ages ago, that he seemed to have found an outlet.  There was a young recruit - what was his name?  Bolt?  Widget? - who worshiped Optimus, as they all did, and Optimus seemed to have taken a shine to him, as well.  I hid a smile when I noticed them leaving the officers’ club together one night.  I thought it would be good for him.  
  
And then I got the call, at three in the morning.  I’ll never forget the sight, or the sickening, oily  _smell_ of it.  The boy looked as though he’d been torn open, slowly.  There was energon spattered up the walls, taller than me, and the expression on the corpse’s face…  
  
And there was Optimus in the middle of it, gazing up at me with those wide blue eyes.  I had never seen him looking so peaceful.  
  
He didn’t remember, afterwards.  Fell into a blissful recharge as I scrubbed fuel off the floor, and a few days later, he innocently asked me what had become of the kid.  I told him he’d been transferred.  That’s what I do - I clean, I cover up, I come up with stories about an undercover assignment or an accident in the weapons locker.  You can probably guess from the sound of that that there have been quite a few, and you’re right, but I couldn’t tell you how many.  
  
Late at night, I sometimes sit up thinking about it, wondering how long I can keep the pretense up when there are so few of us left.  It’s getting worse.  I see the way he looks at Smokescreen.  And Primus knows, I’m fond of the kid.  But you see, we  _need_ Optimus Prime.  Without that avatar of light, we’re all lost.  
  
-  _log entry deleted -_  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  Apart from the hands, with I imagine is a kink all Ratchets share, TFP Ratchet has a dominant streak a mile wide - which suits Optimus just fine, because there’s nothing he likes better than giving up his responsibilities, if only briefly, and letting someone else take charge.  Optimus also has a kink for sensory deprivation.  He’s very much an introvert, and one who’s forced to be pretty much “on” all the time, often in the noise and smell and craziness of battle, or surrounded by an army of bickering, in-your-face warriors.  He’s basically constantly overstimulated.  Taking that away - taking away everything except the touch of someone he completely trusts - makes him melt.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Okay, this one is technically a twofer.  Ratchet and Orion Pax’s first kiss happened a long, long time ago on Cybertron.  Ratchet was a handsome, influential physician in his prime; Orion was the quiet, nerdy young friend Jazz had dragged along to the bar.  After a few drinks, though, Ratchet and Orion got to talking, and the doctor was astonished at the young mech’s mind - and his passion.  As they said goodbye that night, Ratchet leaned over and gave Orion a firm but chaste kiss on the mouth, whispering that he’d love to see him again.  
  
And things between them might have turned out very differently - had Orion not stumbled the same week on a series of pirate transmissions from a gladiator in Kaon.  
  
Ratchet’s first kiss with Optimus Prime came many years later, when Ratchet dashed into the medbay after a particularly brutal battle to find the Autobot leader, bloodied but alive and well, being helped to one of the berths.  As soon as his helpers left, Optimus was treated to a full-on I-thought-you’d-been-killed-you-idiot tirade - and in the middle of it, Ratchet abruptly broke off, grabbed Optimus so close that Ratchet was half sitting on his lap, and kissed him fiercely.  And then kept yelling as if nothing had happened.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Mama and Papa Pax welcome Ratchet with quiet grace, and steadily warm up to him as they watch him with their son.  The medic has a good heart, and that’s what they want most in the world for their dear Orion.  Ratchet blusters to hide how moved he is by the family’s acceptance of him.  However, spending the day with such unfailingly sweet and polite people is a bit much for him, and does leave him with the urge to hit a dive bar afterwards - not that he’d ever say as much to Orion.  
  
Orion gets to meet Ratchet’s formidable mother once before the war.  After the meeting, she takes Ratchet aside and tells him sternly, “Sweetspark, that young mech is entirely too good for you.  You  _hold onto him_ , or I’ll know the reason why.”  And she smacks him lightly with her fan, at which he rolls his eyes and threatens to have her committed, which basically counts as an exchange of I-love-yous in the Ratchet family.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Optimus courteously clears so much space in his quarters that it almost makes Ratchet wish he had more than his meagre possessions to put there.  The two of them rub along very quietly.  Occasionally, they’ll have a tiff, especially if Ratchet starts swearing at his malfunctioning equipment ( _medical_ equipment, get your minds out of the gutter) while Optimus is trying to work, but the benefits of having the other nearby to offer a shoulder rub or a quiet word of encouragement far outweigh the disadvantages.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**  With  _Star Trek_ , again.  While Optimus and Kirk are carrying out the duties of interplanetary diplomacy (which eventually turns to swapping war stories - Optimus thinks this “Khan” fellow sounds a little like Megatron), Ratchet and Dr. McCoy immediately lock themselves in McCoy’s office with the good doctor’s entire stash of booze.  “Are you sure?  You realise none of this is going to work on a mechanical life form, right?”  “Sir, I’ve bounced from end to end of this galaxy, and met races so weird that just tellin’ you about them’d fry your circuitry; by God, if I can’t synthesise  _somethin’_ that’ll do the trick, I don’t know who can!”  The lusty, drunken strains of an Autobot war ballad are heard echoing in the halls shortly afterwards.  It turns out that Neocybex sounds pretty good in a Georgia accent.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**  I’m a sucker for reversals of rank, and I think this situation is ripe for one.  Ratchet is the globe-trotting head of a respected medical NGO that works in some of the most dangerous conflict zones in the world.  He’s a bit of a rogue, a bit of a wheeler-dealer; he has ethical lines he won’t cross, sure, but he’s not above making friends with some shady characters in order to keep his doctors safe from harm while they’re tending to the wounded and displaced.  Optimus is Ratchet’s assistant and bodyguard, and is generally the one chasing after him, saying things like, “Sir, are you sure we should be doing this?” and, “There’s still time to get back on the helicopter, you know.”  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice: ** The AU of Pure Angst - I’d love to see what would happen if Ratchet did join the Decepticons for real after Optimus destroyed the Omega Lock in Season 2.  Optimus heartbroken; Ratchet tormented by guilt; Megatron gloating like crazy;  ~~Shockwave cuddling and petting his awesome new little science buddy~~.  Great stuff.




	9. Dinobot and Rattrap (Beast Wars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Tumblr user Midgreen-shadows. Thank you so much for the prompt! Warning for graphic violence in the dark!fic answer.

  * **Fake dating:**  This comes about after Optimus yells at the two for the umpteenth time to learn to get along, or by PRIMUS he’ll… well, probably just yell at them again, actually.  Rattrap and Dinobot start thinking that the best way to get him off their backs is to convince him that they  _have_ started getting along – really,  _really_ getting along.  Of course, the fake dating quickly degenerates into a game of humiliation chicken, with each of them cranking up the ridiculously romantic behaviour and trying to make the other break first.  Rattrap has a long history of flirting outrageously just to yank people’s chains, so he assumes he’ll win.  What he doesn’t take into account is that Dinobot is smart, and determined, and  _has read the entire works of Shakespeare_.  After about two days, the façade ends with Rattrap storming off, snarling something about “if that overgrown lizard compares me to a slaggin’ summer’s day one more time…” Optimus never stops laughing.  Ever.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   There are no words for how much Dinobot hates this. There are also no words for the way he smells right now.  And Dinobot is a mech who knows a lot of words.  
  
Rattrap is initially excited – hey, stronger frame means he can tote around even more firepower, right?  The first time he shows up to a battle in Dinobot’s body, he’s got most of the  _Axalon’s_ arsenal strapped across his back.  The problem is, Rattrap’s not used to _regulating_ his strength.  Suddenly, he can’t jump up on his friends, because he’d crush them; even giving a hug requires some care.  He finds himself grudgingly admiring the delicate touch Dinobot is capable of, once he realises how much control it takes.    
  
That doesn’t stop him from making a video of “Dinobot” twerking energetically to club  music, or from broadcasting it to all of their fellow Maximals.  Dinobot theatrically swearing vengeance is, admittedly, pretty funny while he’s tiny and fuzzy.  Worse, Megatron manages to intercept the transmission, and laughs his ass off.  Then he saves a private copy.  For “reasons”.


  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:** There would be an unbelievable amount of protesting involved first.  “If I  _must_ lay hands on your disease-ridden carcass, vermin, I will at least require some way to turn off my olfactory sensors first.”  “Hey, I ain’t exactly over the moons about havin’ to touch your scaly hide, either, Dino-breath.”  “ _And_ my audials.”  “Slag you!”  It’s all for show; the snarling rapidly turns into fierce, hungry kissing.  The sex is rough, even a little desperate, and it goes on until they’re almost ready to collapse, because they both know this is the best chance they’ll ever have to do this and still keep their attraction deniable.  Afterwards, even more protesting, of the “ew-gross-I-need-a-shower” variety.  This fools precisely no one.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:** (Disclaimer for this bit – I haven’t actually finished watching all of  _Beast Wars._ I know, I know!  I do know what happens later in the series, but please excuse me if I get any details wrong here.)  Okay.  There was apparently an episode of  _Beast Wars_ written, but never made, in which Rattrap would have tried to insert the memories of the original Dinobot into his evil clone, Dinobot II.  That’s the starting point for this story.  
  
In this version, it actually works.  The recorded memories overwrite Dinobot II’s programming, and miracle of miracles, Rattrap has his boyfriend back!  The other Maximals are naturally suspicious at first, but Dinobot II understands, and is more than willing to give them time to learn to trust him – letting Optimus lock him and Rattrap in at night, never going off on his own, slowly earning his old privileges back.  Eventually, suspicion is replaced by relief and joy.  Dinobot II may look a bit freaky, but the Maximals come to realise that underneath, he has the noble spark of their old friend.  
  
They couldn’t be more wrong.  
  
One night, Rattrap is startled awake by a distant scream.  He realises that he’s alone – and finds the door locked from the outside with a complex code.  Working frantically, and egged on by the awful sounds he can just make out from the control room, he finally manages to hack the lock.  The scene he walks into is straight out of a nightmare.  The bodies of his comrades are strewn around the ship, their energon splashed all over the walls:  and in the middle of it all is Dinobot II, calmly sitting at one of the consoles, just finishing up a call to Megatron to tell him the  _Axalon_ is his.  Without even looking around, Dinobot II grins and tells Rattrap that he’s been  _so_ good, Dinobot II might even keep him as a pet once the Predacons have won the war.  
  
Now, the thing with Rattrap is, he doesn’t usually bother hiding when he’s pissed off.  If he feels like smacking you and calling you a moron, that’s precisely what he’ll do.  So most of the people who’ve known him a while assume that they’ve probably seen him as angry as he ever gets.  They have not.  In fact, even  _Rattrap_ wasn’t aware of how angry he could be… until now.  
  
Rhinox is a fighter, and while he was badly injured in the attack, he managed to survive it.  He wakes up in a CR chamber some hours later.  When he emerges, the first thing he sees is Dinobot II lying on the floor.  And on the console.  And on the  _other_ console.  And bits of him on the ceiling.  And in one corner sits Rattrap, rocking back and forth and seemingly unaware that he’s soaked in energon.  He’s cradling Dinobot II’s right arm – probably the part of his frame most like the original Dinobot’s – and pressing the fingers against his cheek, and he’s crooning to it softly.   
  

  * **Secret kinks:**  I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that both of them like it rough.  Their reasons are a little different, though:  for Dinobot, sex and combat have a lot in common.  They’re both intimate, intense dances that teach you more about your partner than you ever could have learned otherwise, and some part of him is able to stand back and analyse, even in the heat of the moment. For Rattrap, though, the roughness is about heightened passion, greater abandon.  Rattrap also likes to talk dirty to his partners.  The first time he tries it on Dinobot, Dinobot growls at him to keep going… and Rattrap actually gets flustered, because in his entire life,  _no one has ever told him to keep talking before._  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**  Surprisingly, the first kiss of any kind between them is very chaste.  After Rattrap gets hurt covering Dinobot in battle, Dinobot takes his hand and kisses it.  To him, it’s a warrior’s thanks, a way of expressing gratitude and loyalty when he can’t bring himself to do it out loud, but to Rattrap, it’s the most bewilderingly sexy thing he’s ever seen.  
  
Their first kiss on the lips comes in the middle of a fight, a verbal sparring match that turned physical – Dinobot has Rattrap pinned, and Rattrap arches up and plants a wet, mocking smack right on his mouth, just to see what he’ll do.  What actually happens is like a dam breaking, for both of them; a visceral demonstration of the sexual tension that underlies almost all of their fights.  Let’s just say that Rattrap stays pinned for a while, and he has absolutely no objections to this. ;)  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:** If Dinobot can’t always deal with Rattrap, he is thoroughly unprepared to deal with a massive litter of Rattraps, all of them as loud and boisterous as his mate.  In fact, it’s no wonder Rattrap is as loud and pushy as he is, if he grew up having to fight to be heard in the midst of  _this_ lot.  None of them quite know what to make of this huge, slightly panicked-looking ex-Pred, but with Rattrap standing protectively next to Dinobot and shooting all of them a look that clearly says, “Say one nasty word about him, and I’ll kick your ass just like when we were kids,” they manage to be… sort of benevolently curious, if not friendly.  This mostly translates into the adults firing a million questions at once, while the various nephews and nieces all try to crawl into Dinobot’s lap or play with his sword.  Rattrap gets into a shouting match outside with his father, who’s even more anti-Predacon than his son ever was and starts throwing around phrases like “no son of mine” and “can’t trust any of ’em!”  Meanwhile, Mama Rattrap rescues Dinobot from the curious toddlers and drags him into the kitchen to help her cook. When her husband and son come back inside, she confronts them both and informs them matter-of-factly that Dinobot is a smart boy; that he’s got some fire to him, so he’ll be good for Rattrap; and that he likes her cooking.  He stays.  End of story.  
  
Dinobot’s mother was killed in a battle many years ago, in the last days of the Great War.  His father is still alive; he was a warrior, too, like his wife and son, but turned tail and ran from a fight, and was banished from the Decepticon ranks because of it.  Dinobot doesn’t have any contact with him.  He takes Rattrap to his mother’s grave, though, and kneels at her graveside, telling her about his mate in, for once, straight-up glowing terms.  Rattrap weakly tries to defuse the seriousness of the moment with a joke, but he’s a little shaken.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**  Really, the first red flag should have been Rattrap just showing up with an armload of his stuff and sashaying through the door, making a cheery comment about Dinobot’s room having more space than his.  Dinobot  _likes_ the space.  His room is spartan, while Rattrap gives new meaning to the phrase “pack rat”. Dinobot also needs his privacy, while Rattrap has never been too clear on the concept of boundaries – physical, spatial, or emotional. You can see where this is going.  
  
A LOT of stuff gets thrown in the argument that precipitates Rattrap moving back out again.  
  
However, some months later, Dinobot notices that some of Rattrap’s stuff has started accumulating again.  Not on purpose, just… things he forgot, like a polishing rag or a disk they were watching together. After contemplating the stuff for a while, Dinobot stacks it all neatly in one corner of the room.  Shortly afterwards, he appropriates a couple of cushions from Rattrap’s quarters (he’s got loads; rats like nesting) and adds them to the corner, too.  They never actually _discuss_  it, but this arrangement seems to work a lot better; they find themselves spending more evenings than not with Dinobot sitting cross-legged on the floor and Rattrap curled up in “his” corner, talking or not as the mood takes them.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:** With  _Firefly_.  Dinobot and Rattrap as a pair of interstellar gunslingers, smugglers, and general ne’er-do-wells; I would eat that up.  I love the idea of these two striking out on their own to have adventures, and  _Beast Wars_ already plays with a lot of Old West tropes, so it’d be fitting.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Ruthless, obsessive lawman Dinobot chasing interplanetary con artist Rattrap across the galaxy.  It would be an interesting role reversal, to have Dinobot be the one on the side of the angels; I’d love to see how blurred the moral lines would get.  I think that Dinobot would realise at some point that he’d become totally disconnected from the law and the society he was supposed to be protecting, and that the only constant, and the only person who knew him intimately, was the criminal he was supposed to be tracking down.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:** Two words – Predacon.  Rattrap.  Rattrap’s always struck me as the type whose career hasn’t always stayed on the right side of the law.  If he didn’t have the dislike of Predacons that he does in  _Beast Wars,_ who’s to say whether he might not have fallen in with Megatron and his crew at some point?  Sure, they’ve got some screwy ideas, but they’re effective and ambitious and they can pay him for his skills, so why not?  Dinobot dislikes him on sight – he sees Rattrap as nothing more than a little sneak thief for hire – but they get paired up for their first mission, and sure enough, they eventually start to develop that same if-I-don’t-kill-him-I’ll-kiss-him dynamic they have in the regular universe.  Would Dinobot still defect?  Would Rattrap come with him, or could they end up facing each other from opposite sides of the battlefield? 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We seem to be moving away from mad scientist!darkfic in favour of an emerging trend of oh god the blood it’s everywhere. I’m… not sure if that’s an improvement.


	10. Prowl and Chromedome (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was an anonymous request.

  * **Fake dating:**   The two of them go undercover as a pair of notorious assassins who also happen to be  _conjunx endura._ Chromedome, who’s already realised by this point that he’s got a bit of a crush on his partner, finds this deeply uncomfortable.  Prowl, the consummate professional, is annoyed by Chromedome’s reluctance (though he doesn’t know the reason for it) and keeps sternly reminding him that _we are officers of the law, Tumbler, our own feelings do not come into this._ For his own part, Prowl throws himself into the role, and the more reticent Chromedome is, the more Prowl feels like he has to be all over him in public to make up for it.  And if Chromedome was uncomfortable with the fake dating idea,  _whoa boy_ does having a lapful of aggressively affectionate Prowl not help matters  _at all._ The whole thing becomes a negative spiral, with Prowl getting secretly kind of upset that Chromedome apparently thinks he’s too repulsive to touch, even for the sake of doing their jobs, and Chromedome desperately trying to think about sparkeaters and cosmic rust every time Prowl seductively runs a foot up his leg, so as not to betray how turned on he is – all while still having to pretend that he’s _pretending_  to be turned on for the sake of their audience.  The one saving grace, from a professional standpoint, is that the gang members these two are investigating are fascinated by the apparent _train wreck_ of a  _conjunx_ relationship in their midst, and it distracts them long enough for Prowl and Chromedome to get the proof they need.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   If it’s pre-war – They don’t find the switch all that interesting; after all, they’ve got identical jobs, similar frames, and similar alt modes, so it’s not like Chromedome could take a satisfying joy ride in Prowl’s body or vice versa.  (Although he does take Prowl’s body out to get it drunk, and discovers that his partner is an astonishing lightweight.  Prowl, who’s been taking meticulous care of his borrowed frame, is none too happy to exchange the perfect polish job he gave Chromedome’s body for the hangover Chromedome gave his. )  No, the main difference has to do with expressiveness.  Prowl has to cope with the loss of his ability to make other cops quail with a glare or a curled lip.  He can’t even _pfft_!  Chromedome, on the other hand, has a difficult time because he’s suddenly broadcasting  _everything_.  He’s not used to having an expression to control, but now he’s a mess of scowls and grins and fluttering doorwings.  It makes Prowl cringe just to look at him.  
  
If it’s during the war, Chromedome is completely overwhelmed, trying to balance the insanely heavy duties of the Autobot 2IC with madly chasing Prowl around to try and stop him from injecting  _everyone._


  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Prowl finds the sexpollen  _incredibly_ embarrassing.  Fuck or die/aliens made them do it, I think he’d be a lot more able to take in stride – probably more than Chromedome would.  Chromedome doesn’t strike me as the type to be able to separate a sexual connection, even one commanded by The Powers of Plot Convenience, from an emotional one.  He gets attached,  _hard_.  (And not just to his  _conjunx endura,_ either; we see in MTMTE that he only has a couple of good friends, but he’s very close to them.  For that matter, the ability to form attachments is probably a large part of what makes him such a good mnemosurgeon, and the inability to let go is probably what leads to the nightmares.)  Prowl, on the other hand, would be able to approach a fuck-or-die scenario in a businesslike manner.  He has a place deep inside his mind where he can lock himself away and let his body do what needs to be done.  
  
But it’s sexpollen, and Prowl isn’t dealing with this  _at all_ , because there’s a real difference between being required to have sex and being made to feel desire.  He’s been reduced to a panting, needy wreck in front of his best friend, and it’s humiliating.  Chromedome’s first impulse has nothing to do with lust:  he just wants to reassure Prowl that it’s okay, that Chromedome doesn’t think any less of him, that no one else has to know if Prowl doesn’t want them to… that Chromedome will take care of him, if that’s what he wants. Chromedome already half-thinks of himself as Prowl’s bodyguard – taking the dangerous assignments so that Prowl can be safely left to his calculations – and if he squints, he can almost see this as just another way he’s physically protecting Prowl.  
  
The sex quickly and mutually turns passionate, though.  There’s something almost familiar about being with each other like this, given how intimately connected they already are in every other way. Chromedome stays, afterward, when Prowl finally falls asleep, the toxin purged from his system.  The aftermath is going to be awkward in the morning, Chromedome realises, and the way ahead even more awkward, if they both decide that they want this to be a permanent part of their friendship.  But right now, there’s only the warmth of the bed and Prowl’s arm looped tightly around his waist.


  * **Dark!fic:**   No one can prove it.  Brainstorm suspects it’s true, and Chromedome might have been able to provide the evidence, if he hadn’t – well, you know.  If he had the memories left to string together.  But without those memories, there just isn’t enough information available about the circumstances of the individual deaths, and Brainstorm has nothing concrete to go on.  
  
Even if he’s dead certain, deep down, that Prowl is killing all of Chromedome’s  _conjunx endura.  
  
_ Scattergun was KIA in a raid on the New Institute.  Nothing unusual about that, unfortunately; he had the bad luck to be working alone in the lab nearest the main doors when the ’Cons burst in.  Nothing unusual at all… except that that wasn’t Scattergun’s usual workspace.  And no one ever really explained how the raiders managed to find the hidden entrance to the place.  
  
Pivot fell victim to a toxin one of their prisoners brought with him inside the Institute; again, nothing suspicious, beyond the security being a little laxer than it should have been, and the medics’ response a tad slower than usual.  Chromedome and Mach were on a long-range mission when Mach died.  The only thing Brainstorm has gathered about that one is that there was some form of explosion.  By the time the ship returned to Cybertron, Chromedome was in a state of unsettling serenity, and would just stare if anyone asked him about Mach.  
  
And this time – well, surely this time  _couldn’t_ have been Prowl’s fault.  Okay, so Prowl did decide to put Overlord on the ship, but there were multiple safeguards, Brainstorm saw to that himself. Prowl would have had to realise that Chromedome would go down there alone… which, all right, if you know Chromedome, that’s pretty easy to figure out… and he would have had to know that Overlord had the mnemosurgery skills to rip the code out of Chromedome’s head… which you could put together from the fact that Overlord once kidnapped Trepan…  
  
… and Overlord  _did_ make a beeline for Rewind…  
  
Brainstorm paces and frets in his lab, but no one can prove it.  
  
What Brainstorm doesn’t suspect – what not even Prowl suspects – is that Chromedome knows full well that he’s doing it.  He  _wants_ Prowl to do it.  That’s why he picks the  _conjunx_  he does – older, small, noncombatants.  It makes things easier.  Which is not to say that Chromedome isn’t fond of them.  He generally is; once or twice, he’s even fancied himself a little bit in love.  But he always knows how it’s going to end.  
  
The supposed memory wipes are a cover.  No one’s ever seen him perform one.  It’s intended to make Prowl feel safe enough to continue.  In reality, Chromedome would never give up the memories of those deaths.  They’re some of the sweetest moments of his long life:  the ecstasy of knowing how deeplyhis Prowl still adores him.  
  
Because, you see, it’s one thing to offer your beloved your own innermost energon.  Offering someone else’s?  Now  _that’s_  love.


  * **Secret kinks:**   Prowl likes to roleplay.  It helps him get out of his own head, and away from the too-stringent ideas about proper behaviour that came along with his upbringing.  He’s also a switch: he enjoys dominating (and he’s good at it), but with Chromedome, he also gets a special pleasure out of submitting and letting Chromedome direct him, giving over that tight, all-consuming control for once.  Prowl doesn’t trust easily, and the fact that he  _can_ trust Chromedome so completely is a heady feeling.  Neither roleplay nor D/s were particularly Chromedome’s thing before Prowl came along, but he finds that watching Prowl just  _let go_  makes the experience completely worth it.  
  
Chromedome’s kink, as you could probably guess, is jacking into his partner’s mind during sex via a hardline connection.  It’s already fascinating for him to see someone’s memories under normal circumstances, and doubly so during sex, because they’re so rapid and so vivid:  sensations touch off specific memories, which call up certain feelings, which intensify the sensations and bring up more memories and so on.  It’s even more intense over a two-way connection, with both partners’ emotions and memories building off one another.  Over the years they’ve been together, Prowl and Chromedome have seen virtually everything about each other’s lives through these connections.  That’s one reason why Chromedome takes it so badly when Prowl threatens to tell Rewind about Chromedome’s past –  _this_ is how Prowl found out that secret in the first place.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   I’ve mentioned this before, but I think that Chromedome and Prowl’s first kiss comes in the middle of an argument, almost certainly directly preceded by the words,  _“Primus dammit, Prowl!_ _”_ (Well, you know, start as you mean to go on. ) They’re growling at each other, Chromedome grabs Prowl by the shoulders to try and physically shake some sense into him, and all of a sudden Chromedome’s realising how hot Prowl’s running, and how blue his optics actually are when they flash like that, and how his mouth is only inches away, and  _holy fuck_ how did he never notice how sexy Prowl’s sneer is –  
  
To say that Prowl is taken aback is the understatement of a century.  His processor basically stalls.  He didn’t know Chromedome felt that way.  He didn’t know Chromedome had a _mouth_.  He’s silent for so long that Chromedome legitimately starts to worry that he’s broken his partner.  But as Chromedome snaps his mask back into place and starts to backpedal frantically, Prowl’s track-800-moving-objects-and-calculate-their-trajectories battle computer kicks in, analyses all available evidence, and spits out the most logical tactical manoeuvre.  Which is pinning Chromedome to the nearest vertical surface and lavishing kisses on his mask and throat until Chromedome moans, opens his mask again, and enthusiastically joins in.


  * **Meeting the parents:**   Prowl doesn’t remember his parents.  He does take Chromedome on a trip to the town where he grew up, though.  It’s an unnerving experience for Chromedome, starting from when Prowl gives him a rundown of some two dozen rules, and nervously makes him recite them back:  no criticising your alt mode, or those of others.  No criticising the Senate.  No discussions of politics, full stop.  No high grade.  No public displays of affection. No being out after curfew.  Any of these things could potentially be an arrestable offense.  Chromedome starts to feel a little more sympathy for Prowl’s own views of law enforcement – he’s strict, sure, but at least he’s strict about the right things.  
  
They visit the orphanage where Prowl was raised, and have a cup of energon with the now-elderly mech who runs the place.  He’s welcoming, if in a rather formal way… at first.  And then it starts.   _I do apologise for these energon goodies, Prowl.  I remember that they used to be your favourites, but I’m sure you’ve gotten used to much fancier things in the big city, in_ Iacon _, hmmm?  Eyyye-a-connn.  How are things in Iacon, Prowl?  We hear such_ shocking _news from that place.  Drugs, and those obscene body-swapping clinics, and now treasonous rallies in the streets!  Dear, oh, dear. And you were so eager to run off there as soon as you were of age. You could have stayed here, you know, joined our police force, maybe made something of yourself.  But then, we were never good enough for our little genius, were we?  Well, at least you’re enforcing the law, as you were built to, dear… whatever passes for law in Iacon, anyway.  Tell me again who your little friend here is, hmmm?_  
  
Prowl sits at attention, and answers in tense, clipped sentences, never a word more than he has to.  They leave as soon as they can – though not soon enough for Chromedome – and on the trip back, Prowl is silent, but his doorwings are visibly shaking.  Chromedome realises that he understands, now, what Prowl means when he says his upbringing gave him discipline.  It takes discipline just to walk peacefully out of that town.  Chromedome has never wanted to burn a place to the ground so much in his life.  
  
Chromedome’s parents are labourers, proud of their own work, but also pleased as punch that their son has become a mechaforensics officer.  The first thing that happens when Chromedome takes Prowl home for a visit is that both parents jump on Chromedome and grapple him in a hug that leaves him barely able to breathe.  Prowl is utterly adrift during the visit.  He’s very quiet, perching awkwardly on one end of the sofa and just listening to Chromedome chatter on with his folks, and he keeps leaping up to offer to help with the dishes, even after he’s been told to just relax, because “help with the dishes” is pretty much the sum total of what he knows about normal family interactions.  As the visit breaks up, Chromedome’s parents embrace him and tell him to be careful out there, no,  _really_ , and Prowl pipes up, “It’s all right.  He’s never alone out there; I’ve got his back.”  Chromedome is startled, but his parents grin, and shake Prowl’s hand warmly as they say their goodbyes.  
  
A few weeks later, Chromedome gets a care package from home. This time, it has two bags of energon goodies in it, instead of the usual one, and there’s a note in his mother’s handwriting explaining that the second is for Prowl.  Prowl writes a very polite thank-you note, and keeps them stashed in his desk drawer, savouring them one at a time whenever he has a really bad day.


  * **Moving in together:**   It’s practical, really.  It isn’t like either of them is home much anyway, with Chromedome usually either at work, Maccadam’s, or one of the free lectures at the Mechaforensic Sciences department of Iacon University when they’re covering mnemosurgery, and Prowl usually either at work or… work.  And pooling their salaries means they can afford something a little more comfortable, a little closer to HQ.  And for the most part, they rub along surprisingly quietly together.  Prowl is a little neater than his partner, but not actually obsessive about anything except the organisational system for his case files (although the  _you do not put a case file back in the wrong order_ rule is, in fact, set in stone, as Chromedome learned the hard way), and the comfort of those brief moments between waking up wrapped around each other and having to get ready for work is well worth having to negotiate chore rotas and who’s responsible for the weird forensic decomposition experiment in the fridge.  
  
What’s really worth its weight in shanix, though, is the roof.  It’s nothing special, just an open space with a few sad little crystals growing in pots, a legacy from a previous owner.  But when the fights happen (and of course they do), it provides a crucial space for one or the other of them to go and cool off, somewhere where he doesn’t feel trapped, but he’s not leaving his partner home to worry while he paces the streets of Iacon at night.  
  
Sometimes, Chromedome cooks breakfast for the two of them on their days off.  The most gruesome Decepticon torture imaginable will never get Prowl to admit how cute he finds this.


  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With the BBC’s  _Sherlock._ Because Prowl and Sherlock’s first encounter would be  _insane_.  I keep seeing it as a heady mix between running slow-motion into each other’s arms as an orchestral score swells, and the posturing and snarling of a tiger discovering a second tiger on his mountain.  “Oh, my God/Primus, someone who finally understands exactly what I’m talking about!  How can I crush him to prove the superiority of my intellect?”  
  
As Sherlock and Prowl dash off yelling at each other about vital fluid spatter and obscure types of sand that are only found in southern Tunisia, Chromedome and John Watson exchange a look.  The look says, very clearly,  _Drink?  
  
_ The resulting pub crawl is  _epic._ As they get more and more pissed, they move from discussing their woes (“Does yours do the thing where he orders everybody to leave so he can ‘read the room’?” “Even worse.  He can read the room  _backwards_.”  “… Wait, how does that even –”  “Primus, don’t ask.”), to bonding over shared interests (“You ever fired a Cybertronian blaster rifle, John?”  “Can’t say I have, mate.”  “Would you like to?”), to… well, probably wanton property destruction at that point, to sloppy-drunk confessions.  I’m not sure which one would turn to the other first and say,  _Look, I might not have my partner’s deductive skills, but even I can see that you’re in love, so why don’t you tell him?_ , but by the end of the night, they both realise it’s true.  
  
Their newly admitted love for their partners does get a teensy bit tested when Sherlock and Prowl blow back into town almost seventy-two hours later:  Prowl in vehicle mode, Sherlock half-hanging out his window, and both of them  _high as cake_ , covered in gunshot residue, chemical burns, and what looks like, but can’t possibly be, glitter.  Prowl keeps babbling about how they’ve “solved the theorem!”  Sherlock looks up blearily at John, murmurs, “Elementary,” and passes out on Prowl’s hood.  
  
Meanwhile, Orion Pax and Lestrade meet, size each other up, exchange a few terse remarks about jurisdiction, shake hands, and go have a relaxing cup of coffee together.


  * **An au of my choice:**   I was going to say straight-up cop show, but I decided to go for a bit of a twist.  Chromedome is a wealthy commercial mnemosurgeon with a handsome and loving  _conjunx endura…_ who is murdered before his eyes one night in an alley by a petty crook from the Dead End.  At first, Chromedome is tempted to turn his needles on himself in his grief, but he decides that it’s his duty to remember his lost love, and to bring justice to Iacon, so that no one else will ever have to suffer the kind of pain he suffers.  He comes up with the idea of donning a disguise, both to protect the only friends he has left (his family’s old retainer, Ironfist, and Brainstorm, the mad genius who develops all his gadgets) and to make himself into a myth so that he can strike fear into the hearts of criminals.  As he sits in his study one night, a bat comes flying in the window (or possibly a Senator-turned-cassette; it’s kind of gone too quickly to tell).  And just like that, Chromedome has it.  He is vengeance!  He is the night!  He – is – BATMECH!  
  
At first, Batmech focuses on cleaning up the Dead End, but he soon discovers that there are much more sinister forces at work in Iacon, and a trail of graft and murder leading right to the highest levels of the Senate.  And that’s how he ends up, late at night, in the office of Detective Prowl, Iacon’s last honest cop.  
  
Prowl freezes at the tickle of needle-tips against the back of his neck.  But they don’t so much as scratch him; instead, as he sits rigidly, the low, gravelly voice of the one they call the Batmech recites a list of the Senate’s crimes a mile long right in his audial, and asks for his help.  
  
“But what can I do?” Prowl whispers back.  “I’m just one mech!”  
  
“Not anymore,” comes the reply out of the darkness.  “Now we’re two.”


  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  Okay, let me lay down this beat and see if you pick it up:  The AJD.  That’s right. The  _Autobot_ Justice Division.  Because freedom may be the right of all sentient beings, but that doesn’t mean that betrayal doesn’t have consequences.  
  
If you asked them (which no one has the guts to do), they’d be quick to assure you that they  _weren’t_ inspired by their Decepticon counterparts.  And it’s true that there are differences.  For a start, the Autobots are much less physically intimidating.  To the uninformed eye, they just look like five ordinary Cybertronians.  
  
Five ordinary Cybertronians whose very names haunt their comrades’ nightmares.  
  
Whirl is the most straightforward of the bunch.  He’ll rip you messily apart, and enjoy doing it.  Mirage’s tortures are more sophisticated; the mech wasn’t born into the nobility for nothing, you know.  No one even likes to  _talk_ about the things Jazz can do, but among his less grotesque (but more inventive) skills is a facility with music:  they say he can twist it to cause pleasure or pain in ways that Soundwave himself would envy.  Chromedome gets you when those three are finished.  He inserts himself into your mind, and with a metaphorical snap of his fingers, he can take everything the others have done to you, multiply it by your very worst memories, and trap you in it  _forever_.  
  
And the leader, Prowl?  
  
Oh, Prowl just talks to you.  
  
When the other four have reduced you to a bleeding, quaking, barely-recognisable strip of metal, he’ll crouch down in the dust beside you, stroke your cheek, and lay out his airtight case for your death in that smooth, soft, reasonable voice of his.  And to the horror of the small part of your brain that’s still able to struggle, you’ll start to believe him.  What you won’t realise is that with every cadence, every note, he can control the very beat of your spark.  
  
And very soon, it’s going to beat its last.  
  
(So, yeah – would basically love seeing the AJD as a tightly-knit, surprisingly functional group of psychopaths who are a law unto themselves.  Team orgies optional, but welcomed. ;))



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do find it kind of funny, given their canon relationship, thatthis is one of the few darkfics where I didn’t go for the psychological manipulation or mind control tropes.


	11. Megatronus and Orion Pax (TFP)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from Tumblr user Qtquasar. Thank you for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:** As with Rewind and Dominus Ambus, I can see this being a political protest – a deliberate show of dating across caste lines, to demonstrate that a mid-caste intellectual can be in love with a pit fighter and the sky isn’t going to fall.  At least, that’s Orion’s reasoning.  He’s the one who suggests it, and Megatronus is reluctantly charmed by Orion’s blushing, overly formal request, and curious to see whether there’s anything more personal behind it.  So he agrees.  The symbolism of their public “relationship” is a little different in Megatronus’s mind, though.  To him, it says to the world:  _Look at what’s mine.  Look how, bit by bit, I am taking everything that you would try to deny me._  
  
Orion anticipates at least some physical affection being part of the façade, and is both nervous and (to his shame – this is supposed to be for the good of Cybertron!) kind of excited about it.  It confuses the hell out of him when Megatronus, while he doesn’t hesitate to acknowledge Orion as his chosen consort in public, never ventures more than a hand on the shoulder, or on the small of his back to escort him.  Eventually, Orion is the one to bring up that perhaps – that is, if they are to be convincing – they could… um… kiss? Sometimes?  Purely for verisimilitude, of course.  
  
“Oh?”  Megatronus blinks, all innocence.  “But of course, brother.  If you think it’s best.”  
  
And he smiles like a shark.


  * **Bodyswap:** Orion is completely thrown at first.  By the power of his new body; by the precision of his reflexes; by the admiration and fear he sees in the mechs around him, who had previously looked at him with grudging tolerance at best.  
  
Once he adjusts, though… it’s not as though he doesn’t  _trust_ Megatronus.  Of course he does!  But – well, some of his friend’s most recent speeches have contained such rage, and he’s afraid that Megatronus’s followers might take those ideas to extremes their leader never intended.  So, as long as he’s in Megatronus’s body, it wouldn’t hurt to give a more moderate speech or two, surely?  Just to calm people down?  
  
Megatronus, meanwhile, takes all of about three seconds to figure out where he is, who he looks like, and what he can do in this form. Some of the Iacon records are protected with encryptions, but far more can be accessed through simple face and voice recognition. Megatronus downloads everything he can, starting with records of civil defences and moving on to military and scientific history, High Council decisions – all the pieces of Cybertron’s past that aren’t classified, exactly, but have been out of reach to the lowest castes. And while those are downloading… well, it’s not as though he doesn’t  _trust_ Orion.  But the lad can be naïve, and now that he’s running around with Megatronus’s face, Orion is very likely to either get himself scrapped in a fight or do something unwise with his new authority.  So Megatronus sends a quick pulse to the only person he can trust with the knowledge that someone much more vulnerable is currently inside Megatronus’s frame.  Soundwave is deeply suspicious at first, but he has his own methods of determining identity, and quickly figures out the truth of what’s happened.  
  
Megatronus contemplates coshing that old fool Alpha Trion over the head and grabbing that supposedly mystical book Orion is always going on about, but he doesn’t want to tip his –  _their_  – hand too early.  Instead, he leaves the Hall of Records and takes a long, slow walk around Iacon, relishing the chance to explore the capital in broad daylight without anyone stopping him.  Meanwhile, just as Orion opens a channel to make his first broadcast as Megatronus, a feeler snakes out of the darkness and latches onto the back of his helm, knocking him out.  He wakes up a day later in Megatronus’s berth, in the correct body, with his friend standing over him, looking concerned.  When Orion asks, Megatronus simply says that he spent the swapped time taking a walk.


  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Megatronus is actually pretty pissed about this.  Mainly because control over himself was the first, and, for a long time, only real power he had: he didn’t have money or standing, but by  _Primus_ , he could bend his own mind and body to his will, and use that to gain power over others.  To be manipulated into interfacing like this – especially if it involves sex pollen or some other form of mindwhammy?  That’s a terrifying loss of control.  On top of that – yes, he wants Orion, but he wants Orion to come to him of his own free will.  The whole situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth.  
  
Orion is more pragmatic about it; if this has to happen, then he’s going to at least show his friend as much pleasure and affection as Megatronus will allow.  And Megatronus does allow it – reluctantly, at first, but it isn’t Orion he’s angry with, and he knows that.  He goes out of his way to be more gentle than he ordinarily would, as well, suspecting that it might be Orion’s first time.  Orion absolutely laps up the unaccustomed tenderness, but in the end, he’s the one who wants to take things in a rougher direction.  And it turns out that Orion’s able to give almost as good as he gets; Megatronus’s frame has more than a few new scratches and dings by the end of the night.  Megatronus finds that really, really hot… and a little unnerving.  
  
And then they go kick those aliens’ boundary-challenged asses.  I mean, seriously. :P


  * **Dark!fic:** What, you mean  _darker_ than “they broke up, each feeling that the other had betrayed him, and then led opposing armies in a war that lasted for millions of years until one of them died in the cold of space, orbiting an alien world made out of an evil god, and the other had to watch his former lover’s lifeless body burn up on reentry?”  
  
*cracks knuckles*  Oooookay…  
  
You see, Alpha Trion has this book.  The Covenant of Primus, he calls it, but the secret is that it’s no such thing.  It’s an ordinary book, an ordinary  _blank_ book; the old fraud probably bought it off an Iacon market stall.  No, the special part is the quill.  
  
The quill makes things happen.  
  
More to the point, it makes things  _always have happened.  
  
_ Alpha Trion likes to go around very deliberately  _not_ saying that he was one of the original Thirteen Primes, so, naturally, everyone assumes that he was.  And they’re right… now.  The truth is, that was Trion’s very first test of the quill’s powers.  He simply copied out a list of the Thirteen in his book, and substituted his own name for one of theirs.  And to his astonishment, the text he was copying from  _changed_.  The shift itself was not discernible to the optic:  one moment, the list was as it had been, and the next, Trion’s name was there.  Not only there, but in  _every_ Cybertronian history text, _everywhere_ , and seared into Trion’s mind as well.  It was burned into objective reality itself.  
  
You could argue that he killed the Prime he replaced… but can you really kill someone who never existed?  
  
The problem is, it’s delicate work, changing the past to change the present.  At first, Trion’s rewrites were sweeping.  He took his homeworld, a backwards planet that had only just emerged from savagery into a repressive caste system, and gave it a glorious past.  Relics of a retroactive Golden Age, like the decaying space bridges, sprang up instantly around the planet – and just like that, they had always been there.  
  
But the changes didn’t work out the way Trion wanted.  Instead of inspiring them to reach beyond their current system, for example, the implanted memories of the Golden Age only lent new strength to the High Council’s insistence that their methods were right; after all, if the caste system succeeded such an enlightened time, then it must be the wisest system.  Disillusioned and frustrated, Alpha Trion stopped using the quill altogether, and told no one of its powers.  No one – except his protégé.  
  
Now, Orion Pax isn’t a stupid mech, and he certainly isn’t a malicious one.  What he is, is young, and a little naïve, and desperately in love.  
  
One day, he comes running in a panic into the Hall of Records.  The Council have made him  _Prime_ – but that does not, cannot, make up for the loss of the mech he loves.  He can’t help thinking that  _if only_ he and Megatron had never met with the High Council…  
  
And then it occurs to him.  
  
The first thing he writes is that Alpha Trion never owned the quill, nor knew of its power.  It’s the surest way to avoid getting caught, and he considers it something of a mercy to his mentor, who has long carried the burden of what he did to their history.  Then, Orion makes the crucial change:  The meeting with the High Council never happened.  Megatron never turned on him, and everything is as it should be.  
  
But of course, his contentment doesn’t last.  Megatron is still ramping up his movement to a point where a clash with Cybertron’s rulers is inevitable, and one way or another, that is going to tear him away from Orion.  Hesitant, but determined, Orion picks up the quill again.  It starts with a few minor tweaks:  rallies that once went Megatron’s way, now didn’t.  Key speeches never happened.  Bit by bit, Orion chips away at his beloved’s power.  He believes in Megatron’s ideals – he  _does_ – but the thought of losing him in the process is too much to bear.   
  
Just like Alpha Trion before him, Orion finds that his changes don’t quite work as planned.  If success made Megatron more ambitious, failure makes him desperate, and puts him on an even more certain collision course with the High Council.  So Orion goes after those who encourage him.  Starscream, whispering promises of obscene power in Megatron’s audial; Soundwave, silently egging him on. With a stroke of the quill, a gladiator known has The Faceless was killed in a pit fight many years ago.  A reckless flying stunt ended in a crash that vaporised the unfortunate young seeker, long before he could become Sentinel Prime’s bodyguard, never mind Megatron’s second-in-command.  Megatron – Megatronus – is alone, and has always been alone.  Except for Orion.  
  
And still Orion is frightened, when he listens to Megatronus speak about the future, when he holds the sleeping gladiator in his arms at night.  He doesn’t want to kill off that fire in Megatronus, because it’s the first thing Orion loved about him, and to write that Megatronus was never a gladiator, or that that caste system never existed, would risk that.  But there has to be some way, some perfect history in which Megatronus can be the crusader for justice Orion adores, but his crusade will never lead to open war.  Some way they can stay, just like this, forever.  
  
Orion’s losing track of what used to be real, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, he can just pick up his quill again, and it w i l l  
  
i  t   w  i  l  l   
  
 _w  h  a  t  '  s  h  a  p  p  e  n  i  n  g_  
  
  
i̡̛̥͔͈̱̟͓̮͙̰͈̼̯̘̥͍̗̱̯͊͗̽̂̈̐̈́̃̄͆͂͗͂͂̓̀̕͘̚͜͝t̛͈̗̝̤͍̱͉͔͕̗̱̭̟̟͍̳̯̼̲͗͌̍̉͋̐̓̋́̌̏̒̇̍̑̽͆͝ ̧̻̜̹̻̟̺̘̪͍̠̱̠̪̤̹̠͔̤̀͋̆̑͌̈́̓̐̓̏̐͑̽̌̈́͂̀̚͝ͅw̨̧̗͚̥͉̮͎̥̬̗͎͇̜̹̫̦͉̏̇̐͗͑̈́̽̍̃̆̂͋̍̏̅̔̈́̀̐͌͜͝͝ͅḯ̢̡̡̡̨͔̲̹̜͕̘̬̣̩̥̗̯̦͓͕̰͛̈͊́̇̓̽͌̉͆̒͗̇̄̌̿̓̚͘͜͠͠͝ĺ̢̢̡̢̥̯̜͖͕̯̱̝͉͔̻̬̮̹̳̭͔̺̏́̆̆̇͊͗̍̂͊̓̂͋̈́̚͠͝͝l̨̢̛͉̜̹͖̮̺̳̼̬̪͍̮͙̝̞̙̯̭̃̎̿͊̂̈̅̋͌̀͛̑̆̀̑́̉͛̽̚͝ͅ ̞̳̬̗͍̦̠͈̼̩̦͈̗͎̥͎̖̟̼̲͔͉͖̀̆̈̾̋͛̅̊̈́̂͑̀͐͊̔̎̉͒̀͝ą̢̢̨̛̼̜̦̫̤͇̖͔̱̺͇̹̩͙̗̥̿̀̄̉͆̓̔̔́̒̀̇̑̂̉͗͆̌̚͝͝͠l̡̢̨̧̛̫̼̱̰̟̱͓̺̜̫̤̺̲͋̉̒͌̀͒̀̋̓̎́̃̔̈́̇̚̚͘͜͝͠͝͠ͅľ̨̧̡̛̛͖͚̪̣̭̠̘͎̼͇̣͔̺͉̗͙̇̾̀̎̑̾̿̈́̒͐̄̽̉̑̌͂̓̚͘͜͝ͅͅ  
̢̩̣͎͇̗̳̙̩̠̥̬͉͕̬̣͔͚̝̩̖̒̈́͂̾̓̃͆̀̀̇̂̿̍̏͊͒͂̇̽̔͗͠ẘ̧̰̪̤̹͙̤͔͈̠͙̰̭̫̟̻͚̝͓̮̰̏̌͋̾͑́͌̋̀̀̔̈́̔̓̌̎͌̄͑̈́͠͠ͅͅą̱̭̬̳̰͎͎̥̠̠̞͚̩̦̱͖͋̔̍̉̇̅̋̐̂͂͋̏̇̆̎̒͗͗̚͘͘͜͝͠ͅi̡̢̢̧͉͕̳͔̳̤̫̖̟̝͉͎̦̻͗̈͛̈́̈́̈́̑̾̆͋̌̊̈́́͐̎̀͘̕͝ͅt̨̛̞͔̦͕̗̩̗̲̝̪͉̤̬̬̞̹̼͗̇̇̓̉̀̋̏̓́̈́̄̈́̔̅̆̎̕̕͘͝ͅ ̢̧̧̙͎̼͈̼̤̮͉͉̬̜͚̺̠͓̥͓͊̈̋̉͋̐̈͊̀̐̓̆̄̈̉̏̎̕̕͜͜͠w̡̨̡̧̥͎̰̥͖̦̳̲̥̮̭̯͍̻̼̲̟̫̌̉͂̾́͆̉̃̾̃̌̋͑́̋̾́̍̊h̡̡̨̡̟̟͍͎̤͙̣̹͕̱̟͉̘͚̟̪͔̲̫͒͛̀̑̇͐̿̈͌̅̒̂̏̄͋͑͆̀̐̚͝͝͠ä̡̢͚̙̼̯̗͙̞͔̣̰̺̲̲̳̞̹͈̭̲̝́̽̊̏̍̔͌͛̀̈́̎̏̀̓̑̇͐͐͝͠t̨̛̟̥͙̲͙̺̲̮̣̻̙̮͔͔̱͉̮͍͗̎͋̓̑̈́̑̿͂̂̈͋̄͛͗̊̏̄͜͝’̻̻̘̟͉͖̜̗̙͉͚̗̖̮̲̞͈̌̒̎̑̀́̿͌͑̏͒̍͛̃̋̔̋͘̚͘͘͜͠ͅs̢̤̻͖̟͖̦͓̜̪͕̙͇̭̻͓̬̗͍͂̄͋͐͌͊̊̋̽̓̐̈́͌̅̄̓̍̾̃̚͝͝͝ͅ ̢̻̗͈̺̭̩̱̘̙̜̳̫̭͉̩͍̫̥͙́͒͊͆̑͑̀͋̈́̉̈́͋̈́͐͋̈́̓͑͘͝͠ͅh̡̧͉̹̗͔͈̥̪̳̹̖̰̤̖̣̙͙͇͚̯̦͑͂̋̀̏̈̋̒̐͛͆̒̊̐̎́̿̉͐͆͘͝ä̡͚̝͇̪̪͇͎̭͙̜̤͔͈̦̘̝̰̠͕̉͐͑̀̀̈́̄͆̐̅͗̾̈́̽͆͑̈̀̀͋͜͝p̨̡̧͕͈̣͎͚͍͈̞̯̹̩̼͍͓̱̩͂̀̏̍̀͛̽͌̀̎̂͂̒̉͊̚͜͝͝͝p̩̹̗͍̣̫̳̤͓̩̥̹̳̠̘̣̻̬͗͗́̔̍̋̓̔̉̆̔͊͆͆̅̅͑́͊̕͜ë̢̨̢̢̢̯̲̻̼̩̝͙̣͔̱͍̠͙͓́̀̈́̐̓̾̐̽͊͑̃̂̎͒͛̇̿̊͆͜͝͝ͅn̢̨̤͈̺͔̠̰͇̖̰͍͕͉͔̫̰̱̟͊̆̊̃͒̍̇͌̀̈́̈̉͗̓̈́̽̕̕̚͜ͅi̧̨̫̣̲̺̲͍̜̗̖̲̝̠̻̱̜͕̻̘͗̾̌̍̓̈́̉̃̀̅̋̆̉̔̓͛̈́͋̅̆́̓͌͜ņ͉̘̪̤͙̥͙̤̫̜̜̗̥͙̞͓̜͕͔́͂̐̈́̌̉̓̇̀̽͌̀̄̒̽̅͊͘͝͠͝g̨̛̤̲͙̣̝̯͔̦̭̭͓̝̮͉̣̭̪͚̝͖͙͍̈̄̆̂̿͂̅̈́̈̈́̇̈́̎̎̎̓͛̄̿͝ ̨̛͍̦͎̬͖̳̻̗̫̗̝̹̟̦̹̝̣̫̯̯̠͛̅̋̌̃͊̅̿̋͛̈́̾̒̐̀̅̍̕͘͘͝͝Ȋ̧̨̛̦̹͕̥̝̱̗̦͇̫͉͚̳̬̠̥̖̹̍̋̂͌̑̇̄̿̓̓̈́̒́̋̈̕͠ͅ ̨̛̛̪̖̹͖̻͕̠̥̳̻͇̭͖͓̤̜̭̭̀́̓͗̈́͒̒͆̆̏̈́͑̅͊͋͂̚̚͠ͅd̨̧̰͈̱͖̟̞͕̞̙͎̦̣̪͔̪̳̱̞̲̂͐͆͛́̓́̎̊̀̎͂͑̄͘͜͝͝͠͠͝͠ǫ̬̙̱̥̖̼̞̤̪̝̜̤̝͎̗̙̟̱̿̇͂̔̓͛̎̈́̾̓̿̃͆̎́̀̎̉̍̋͘n̢̧͖̖̻̼̠̠̮̭̪̟̰̘̦̳̬̱̈́̽͛̎͗͋̽̋̑̉̇̑̃̃͑͐͜͝͠͝’̢̨̡̪̳̖̟̱̺͙͇̤̗̤̤̥̰̯̮̟͎̱̐͆̌̄̈͛̀͗̇̽̀̇͑̕͘͝͠͠ṫ̡̧͓̝̼̠̥̦̱̜̮͇̯͍̫̙̪̟̱͚̞̓̓̓͌͆̐̏͒͛̎̇̔͗̋̀̑̍͛̔͗͜͠ͅ  
  
  
  
  
Okay, so what’s this entry again?  Darkfic?  Oh, gosh, I’m sorry; I don’t think I can do a darkfic for this pairing.  It’s not possible.  Orion Pax and Megatronus are just the sweetest, happiest couple to ever exist.  
  
And they always have been.


  * **Secret kinks:** Megatronus likes  _smart._ He never exactly comes out and says it, but he finds listening to Orion talk about history, politics, and philosophy – or even just hearing him read aloud – incredibly hot.  He’d actually love for Orion to bring some of that eloquence into the bedroom, but Orion tends to stammer and have trouble stringing a whole sentence together during sex (which Megatronus admittedly thinks is endearing).  He also finds it arousing when Orion gets a little rough with him.  Orion loves the sheer size and power of Megatronus’s body on top of him, or pressing him against a wall.  Orion’s always been unusually large-framed for his caste and function, and it often makes him feel gawky and clumsy; it’s such a relief to know that he won’t hurt Megatronus in his enthusiasm.  And Orion is as turned on by Megatronus’s mind as the other way around – before he even met the gladiator, he would find himself getting embarrassingly heated up just listening to one of Megatronus’s speeches.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:** It’s hard to believe, but Orion doesn’t think of Megatronus that way for the longest time.  He cares deeply about him, yes, and it’s a great honour to be his sworn brother, but to his mind, Megatronus is almost more like a force of nature than a person:  awe-inspiring, mysterious, and distant, somehow removed from everyday things like holding hands or kissing.  That is, until they really argue for the first time.  Megatronus is inches away from Orion’s face, snarling, and all of a sudden, he’s not some distant idol or enigma:  he’s real and oh so close, his optics flashing and his engines running hot, and all the fire he normally pours into a pit fight or a speech is directed right at Orion.  Who, to his surprise, finds himself snarling back.  They argue for what feels like hours, until Megatronus bursts out laughing, claps Orion on the shoulder, and concedes the point.  
  
And that’s when Orion, exhausted and elated, kisses him.


  * **Meeting the parents:**   Orion doesn’t actually realise that’s what’s happening at the time.  Megatronus doesn’t have living parents, but a few of the older gladiators who reached out to him when he first arrived in the pits, sparring with him and giving him fighting tips, are still alive.  Orion sees them at the fringes of the crowd when he first visits:  massive, heavily scarred mechs whose clunky designs are relics of a bygone era, watching the young archivist narrowly.  Age is respected in the pits, because you have to be pretty damned hard to survive long enough to get old, so Megatronus still asks his former trainers for their advice every now and then.  After Orion leaves, they all tell Megatronus that he’s playing with fire, that a mech from a higher caste will never understand what their lives are like, and will abandon their cause the moment it becomes uncomfortable for him. Megatronus listens gravely, but tells them that he’s made his decision.  
  
Orion’s parents are very sweet, well-meaning, and rather sheltered mecha who don’t quite know how to behave when their son brings his gladiator paramour home.  They offer Megatronus a “little snack” of what turn out to be more and better-quality rations than he’d ever normally see, and ask him loads of solicitous questions, most of which turn out to be embarrassingly naïve (for example, Orion’s dad asks Megatronus what his education was like, and feels awful when Megatronus points out – quite gently, considering – that the labouring castes don’t get one).  Afterwards, when he and Orion are alone, Megatronus opens his mouth to launch into a scathing commentary on the pampered, oblivious middle castes… and then looks into Orion’s big, worried blue optics, and reins himself in, saying simply, “I see now where your kindness came from, brother.”


  * **Moving in together:** It’s only a part-time arrangement – Megatronus still needs to maintain a presence in Kaon – but as they’re spending more and more time together, Orion says that he’d prefer for Megatronus to consider the flat in Iacon “theirs”, instead of Orion’s alone.  He sets up an additional work station, complete with a stack of datapads he thinks Megatronus will find interesting, and changes the security system so that it will recognise and admit both of them.  Orion is startled when Megatronus reveals that he’s done the same thing with his own quarters in Kaon, rearranging them to give Orion his own dedicated space.  Orion isn’t nuts about spending time in Kaon.  The other gladiators eye him menacingly, and he feels like he’s always being watched (spoiler alert:  he is – his mistake is in assuming that Soundwave  _isn’t_ watching him elsewhere).  But he realises that it makes sense.  If he wants Megatronus to share in his life, then Orion needs to share Megatronus’s.  
  
They both enjoy the experience of living together, during the times when they’re able to:  they can spend an evening passionately debating and bouncing ideas off one another, or working side by side in contented silence.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:** With  _Pacific Rim_.  I know I’ve used that before, but in this case, they wouldn’t be Jaeger pilots; they’d just be Cybertronians who wash up on an Earth under attack by the kaiju. And Orion is trying to convince the skeptical, adorably tiny aliens that maybe they should give diplomacy a chance, and he and Megatronus would be happy to use their technology to try and communicate with the kaiju on the humans’ behalf, while Megatronus just fucking wades out into the Pacific Ocean and yells, _“I honed my skills in the pits of Kaon, bitch!”_ while punching a Category 5,000 kaiju right in the face.  Stacker is gobsmacked.  The Jaeger pilots think that this is the coolest thing to happen  _ever_. Newt gets Megatronus’s face tattooed all over the remaining uninked parts of his body.  Hermann and Orion hole up in a corner together and stare at everyone disapprovingly, though for different reasons.  
  
(Incidentally, it’s kind of a nasty shock for Orion and Megatronus when they first work out that the mecha they encounter are piloted by humans.  Think about it:  it’s as if you were talking to a humanoid from another planet, and then suddenly the top of their skull popped off and you discovered that they were a construct piloted by two squirrels.  It’s not that you dislike squirrels, it’s just  _weird._ )


  * **An au of my choice:**  This would be a quasi-Dark Ages setting, with the powerful, ancient cities that used to rule the world now fallen into decay, and roving bands of warriors competing for the scraps.  One of the warlords is Megatronus the Fierce, who longs for more than just plunder – he wants to conquer what remains of the great cities and rebuild them into a new empire.  One day, a patrol picks up a small band of refugees from one of the cities:  a former city guardsman named Prowl, a man called Jazz who claims to have been a travelling musician (although his skill in combat when he tried to resist Megatronus’s men raises suspicions), an aging healer named Ratchet, and a young scribe called Orion.  The first three men agree to stay and join the warriors of the Decepticon tribe in exchange for food and protection; the Decepticons mean to send Orion away, because they don’t see the point of having a scribe as part of a war band, but Megatronus is intrigued.  He invites Orion to tell them what he knows of the lore of his fallen city.  Orion’s knowledge impresses the warlord so much that he allows the scribe to stay, and eventually makes him one of his advisors.  Orion teaches Megatronus to read and write the languages of the ancient cities, and Megatronus in turn teaches Orion about war and statecraft.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:  **I’d love to see an alternate history, where Orion accepts the Matrix of Leadership – only to turn around and hand it right to Megatron.  I can see Megatron starting out as a decent Prime, only for him to become more ruthless as time went on.  How long would Orion stay by his side, accepting that Megatron’s actions are necessary for the new Cybertron they want to create… and what, if anything, would finally push him into leaving?  Would there still be a war down the road, and what would it look like?  This could be _really_  interesting.




	12. Ultra Magnus and Swerve (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Tumblr user Tarkadaal. Thank you for the prompt!

  * **Fake dating:**   Ultra Magnus takes this so, so seriously.   _We are doing the dating now, Swerve.  We shall proceed to a place of recreation, and there we shall consume fuel in one another’s company, after which I shall display the socially mandated amount and form of affection towards you._ He’s the perfect gentlemech about it, too – pulling out Swerve’s chair for him, bringing him little presents, offering him an arm as they walk down a corridor (even though, with the size difference, it ends up being more Swerve wrapping his arms around one massive hand).  Frag, he even manages to make romantic conversation over dinner, for the benefit of any Decepticons or double agents who might be listening in.  It’s pretty run-of-the-mill romantic conversation, but he still does it.  This is his mission, and he’s determined to conduct it Properly.  
  
Swerve is downright freaked out at first.  Somehow, as intimidating as Magnus is when he’s reading you your rights, he’s  _terrifying_ when he’s sitting across from you and purring about how lovely your optics are.  Swerve’s brain can’t handle the dissonance.  But after a little while, he decides that this situation has too much potential for fun to pass up.  So he starts adding his own unique twist to the proceedings:  starting public fights about how Magnus always works late, and “never has time for us anymore!”  Bursting into tears in the middle of a conversation, just to see the shocked look on Magnus’s face.  Accusing him of staring at the captain’s aft (that makes Magnus splutter for the better part of an hour afterwards).  And one day, feeling particularly bold, he reaches over and runs a hand up Magnus’s thigh, in full view of everyone else in the bar.  Magnus blushes hotly; Swerve leans close to his audial (okay, he has to beckon Magnus forward  _a lot_ first) and whispers, “We want this to look realistic, don’t we?  Sir?”  
  
Ironically enough, Swerve’s little additions  _do_ make their charade more believable.  People have a hard time believing Suave Casanova Magnus, but Awkward, Adrift, Blushing Magnus?   _That_ they’ll buy.  And sure enough, their targets for this particular mission actually swallow the idea that Magnus and Swerve are in a relationship.  
  
Granted, with the way Magnus threatens in a not-so-stage whisper to “punish” Swerve and “make [him] feel the full force of the law” every time Swerve playfully grabs his aft, it’s assumed that it’s a pretty heavily D/s relationship, but that only serves to strengthen the illusion. 


  * **Bodyswap:**   Ultra Magnus loathes this.   _Looooooathes._ It’s bad enough that he’s once again trapped in a weak, easily dismissed body, just like in his life as Minimus Ambus; worse that he has to keep up the façade of a fast-talking comedian while he tries to figure out how to reverse the switch, and he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to crack jokes like Swerve does.  (However, after his forced, nonsensical babbling – which even includes sections of the Autobot Code when he runs out of other ideas – goes unnoticed by the rest of the  _Lost Light_ crew, he realises that no one really  _listens_ to what Swerve says… and the thought gives him an odd pang.  He also realises that no one recognises the Autobot Code. )  Worst of all, though, is the fact that keeps him from recharging at night:   _Swerve now knows about the Magnus armour._  
  
Swerve is indescribably bewildered.  One night, he passes out at the bar; the next morning, he wakes up as a mustachioed green fellow _inside_ Ultra Magnus.  It takes a visit from the actual Ultra Magnus, now in Swerve’s body, to convince him that this isn’t just a hallucination following a really terrific bender.  But once Swerve works out that it’s real… oh- _ho._ The  _Lost Light_  has never known such a reign of terror!  On pain of arrest, all communications must now be relayed through handpuppets.  The captain is required to give his orders through the medium of interpretive twerking.  Combat training is replaced by balloon-animal-making competitions.  Happy hour is  _mandatory._ Swerve does keep his promise not to tell anyone else about the armour, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to abuse his new status in all sorts of other ways.  
  
That is, until he accidentally triggers the armour’s automatic recall, and wakes up with a puzzled and enraged Chief Justice Tyrest standing over him…  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Magnus can’t deal with this.  Yeah, yeah, I know, haha, but no – he  _really_ can’t deal with this.  Control is everything to him – control of his mind, of his “baser” impulses, of the body he’s been given, of the situation.  He’s just lost all of those, and the prospect terrifies him.  And Swerve is so small; Magnus is scared of hurting him by accident.  The fact that, if he’s honest with himself, he  _has_ thought of Swerve that way more than once before (most notably during that night on Hedonia, when Magnus was drunk and unguarded and Swerve was watching him with those huge, sympathetic, pretty optics behind the visor) only makes this worse.  It feels like he’s being punished for his wayward thoughts.  
  
Swerve, on the other hand, is nervous, but elated.  In spite of himself, he’s really come to like Magnus.  And it’s been a long, long time for Swerve.  He’s the guy everyone likes, but who still ends up going home alone, and he misses the physical affection almost more than the sex itself.  He suspects that Magnus is probably lonelier, and needs this even more than Swerve does.  So Swerve, despite his trepidation, ends up being the one leading the encounter, slowly coaxing and teasing Magnus into letting go.  They even learn to negotiate the size difference pretty damned well – Swerve has a few tricks up his sleeve. ;)  (Well, sleeve, mouth, fingers… entire arm…)  
  
Afterwards, Magnus finds himself with a lot of surprisingly tender feelings towards the minibot, and, with some embarrassment, asks if they could do this thing properly.  Swerve heroically manages to bite down on a dirty joke about doing Magnus’s thing  _im_ properly, and agrees.  And that’s the story of how the  _Lost Light’s_ second-in-command ended up dating the proprietor of the semi-legal bar below decks.   
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   Swerve finds out about the Magnus armour purely by accident:  Minimus has removed it to try and fix an internal glitch.  Unfortunately, it turns out that the glitch in the armour isn’t the only malfunction.  The lock on the door is fritzing out, too.  
  
Reluctantly, Minimus sits Swerve down and explains the entire situation to him:  Tyrest, the armour, the Magni who have come before him.  Swerve promises not to tell a soul, and for once in his life, he actually manages to stick to it.  But he can’t stop thinking about that armour.  You see, a lot of Swerve’s schtick – chucking his job as a metallurgist to open a bar; flitting from new “best friend” to even newer “best friend”; deflecting criticism with constant jokes – is about being afraid to fail.  And worse, to be  _seen_ to fail.  He wants to make a difference (it’s why he keeps going along on quests!), he wants to have close friends, he wants people’s respect, but he’s afraid of making a genuine effort in case he falls flat on his face in front of everyone.  But Ultra Magnus  _is_ already respected.  He  _does_ make a difference, and he has people who value him deeply, even if he pushes them away.  Just putting on the armour (in Swerve’s view, at least) gave Minimus Ambus all that.  
  
Why not Swerve?  
  
A few carefully vague suggestions to Brainstorm get him the device he needs – a nifty little toy that can immediately pull a mech out of his vehicle, power suit, or external armour.  Luckily for Swerve, the door lock is still fritzing.  
  
Minimus Ambus wakes suddenly, feeling horribly vulnerable as he realises that the Magnus armour has been ripped off him.  He has only a second to look up at Swerve and understand the magnitude of the betrayal before Swerve, shaking, puts the blaster to Ambus’s head and pulls the trigger.  
  
A familiar voice warbles out cheerily, “Hooray!  You’ve scored a direct hit!” into the silence, and Swerve stares down at the ruins of Minimus Ambus’s shocked, somber face.  
  
Swerve doesn’t know about the automatic recall switch that’s triggered by the wearer’s death, or that it’s capable of working even if the armour’s owner isn’t inside it at the moment of his passing.  In front of his optics, his precious prize abruptly blinks out of existence.  
  
Rodimus is completely at a loss when he goes looking for Magnus, who never showed up for his morning shift, and finds Swerve in his quarters.  Magnus is flat-out missing – a scan of the ship fails to find or trace him – and Swerve, meanwhile, is splattered with energon and standing over the body of a small green stranger.  He’s babbling something about this being Ultra Magnus, but also about Ultra Magnus vanishing; no one can make heads or tails of it.  Ultimately, Swerve is taken to the brig and locked in a cell next to Fortress Maximus.  Rung still goes to see Swerve every day, and gives him regular therapy sessions, but he informs Rodimus sadly that until Swerve somehow manages to get past this delusion that the dead mech, whoever he was, was actually  _Ultra Magnus_ , he’ll never be able to regain his normal function… and Rung can’t possibly approve his release unless he recovers.  
  
The green mech’s body is given a brief funeral, with Drift delivering a short, impersonal eulogy about how it is the destiny of all to become one in the Afterspark.  Rodimus doesn’t attend.  The stranger was nothing to him, after all.


  * **Secret kinks:**   Swerve likes being gagged.  He normally blows off steam by talking, and being prevented from doing so means all that pent-up energy has to get out in… other ways. ;)  There’s also something deeply, almost scarily intimate about being so exposed, without his usual verbal defences.  Swerve is also very much a sensualist, and he loves incorporating other pleasures.  Sex is awesome, but sex in a hot oil tub, or while licking high grade off each other’s plating?  Or both?  Even better!  Basically, Swerve likes his lovemaking as drawn-out, lazy, and messy as possible.  Needless to say, this isn’t exactly Ultra Magnus’s cup of fuel – especially the messy bit – but he indulges Swerve from time to time, as long as Swerve agrees that they’ll visit the washracks immediately afterwards.  (Swerve has no problem with this, because washracks sex?   _Also awesome._ )  
  
Ultra Magnus likes following orders.  Yeah, I know, big shock. :P  He loves it when his partner tells him explicitly where to touch and how.  As a bonus, this helps him relax, both because the carrying-out-orders part feels natural, and because it gives him a way to explore a much smaller partner’s body without accidentally causing injury.  Swerve enjoys the game, and will tease himself and Magnus at the same time by having Magnus do one thing, then making him stop on a shanix and do something completely different.  Swerve always ends up cutting things short, though, because he gets too excited to be coherent (“What do you want me to do next?”  “EVERYTHING!”), but Magnus doesn’t mind very much when the orders turn into happy screams. ;)  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   Believe it or not,  _not_ a shut-up-Swerve kiss.  It actually happens during that night on Hedonia, just before Magnus passes out.  It’s a mix of suddenly feeling oddly close to Swerve, and wanting to thank the minibot for listening to Magnus ramble.  To say it’s awkward would be an understatement:  Magnus’s face is, like, four times the size of Swerve’s, and Magnus’s aim isn’t great after so much highgrade.  It doesn’t exactly help that while this isn’t Minimus Ambus’s first kiss, it  _is_ the first one where he’s been in the Magnus armour.  Everything is slightly different, both logistics and sensations.  Luckily, Swerve has a decent bit of experience and a broad, talented mouth; once he gets over the shock of realising what Magnus is trying to do, he’s more than willing to help.  
  
The  _second_ kiss is the shut-up-Swerve kiss, which comes when Swerve tries to question a now-sober Duly Appointed Enforcer about what happened last night.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   Remember how I said in my Rewind/Dominus Ambus answer that the patriarch and matriarch of the House of Ambus would be distantly polite if Dominus brought home Rewind, but would fret and subtly drop hints about how Rewind is  _not quite our sort of people?_   Yeah.  Swerve doesn’t get that kind of consideration.  He’s more than just the wrong caste; he’s an object of active suspicion, what with his involvement with a dubious profession (tending bar in a den of mercenaries, scoundrels, and one-time Decepticons!  Horrors!), and he’s also the partner of the black sheep of the family, rather than Minimus’s exalted older brother Dominus.  Halfway through dinner, his parents take Magnus aside.   _We don’t know what you think you’re playing at, son, but this little joke is over.  You_ will  _go out there and make your excuses, and you_ will  _remove him from our house.  You.  Will._  
  
Magnus is mortified and furious that his parents are behaving like this, and he tells them so, barely managing to keep the quaver out of his measured voice.  Then he grabs Swerve and marches him out the door.  Poor Swerve assumes he’s done something wrong.  He was trying  _so hard_ , you see, but he talks even more when he’s nervous, and  _oh Primus_ did he really make that facing/’facing pun?  But when they’re a decent distance from the Ambus mansion, Magnus stops, crouches down so that he can look Swerve in the optic, and tells him quietly, “You’re worth ten of them, you know.”  
  
Swerve hems and haws when Magnus asks about meeting  _his_ parents, and Magnus doesn’t push.  Magnus does get to meet the aunt who raised Swerve from a young age – a very distant, melancholy femme, who, from Swerve’s stories, seems to have given him a roof over his head and plenty of fuel, but nothing more than that.  She’s startled when Swerve and Magnus wash up on her doorstep, and her nephew sweeps her into a giant hug; Swerve wrote to say that they were coming, but Magnus guesses that she never read the message.  A nasty suspicion that she doesn’t read  _any_ of her nephew’s messages worms its way into Magnus’s mind.  
  
They spend an awkward half hour on her sofa (well, Swerve and auntie on the sofa, Magnus hunkered over painfully on the floor, given that all the furniture is minibot-scaled), with Swerve desperately offering more and more grandiose stories about his life on the  _Lost Light_ – how indispensable he is to the captain!  The death-defying quests they’ve been on!  The adventures of the Swerve Posse!  None of it brings more reaction than a frown or an absent nod.  
  
That night, after a few engex cubes too many, Swerve finally explains to Magnus what the deal is with his parents.  The truth is… well, they’re in jail.  Or they were when the war broke out.  They were among the most successful armed robbers in Cybertronian history, the Bonnie and Clyde of Iacon in their day.  Swerve was only little when they were captured, so he doesn’t remember much about them – only his mother’s laugh, and being held tight on the back of a skydart racing through the streets of Iacon.  He realises now that they must have been running from the police, but all he understood at the time was the thrill and the pretty flashing lights.  
Shortly after the war began, a Decepticon raiding party took the prison where Swerve’s parents were being held, freeing the prisoners; some joined up with the ’Cons, but his parents seem to have opted to strike out on their own, because they vanished after that.  Even if his parents were still locked up, Swerve is sure that Magnus would never consent to sit down for a friendly chat with a pair of dangerous criminals.  In fact, Swerve has been terrified that Magnus will find out about his heritage, and won’t want anything more to do with a mech from such tainted stock.  
  
That’s when Magnus breaks in.  “Swerve, I already knew.  I did a background check the moment you came aboard the ship.  What do you take me for?”  
  
Magnus savours the long moment that follows, when Swerve is, for once, completely silent.  Then he manages, in a small voice, “So, you don’t mind?”  
  
“Of course not.”  Putting a gentle hand on Swerve’s knee, Magnus asks, “Do you want me to help you try to find them?”  
  
Swerve fidgets, torn.  On the one hand, he’s dying of curiosity, naturally; on the other, he’s not sure he wants to meet up with his parents again after all this time.  When he was small, he used to comfort himself by dreaming about how happy they’d be to see him when they finally got out, how they’d run into each other’s arms, how proud they’d be of him.  He’s not sure he can deal with being wrong.  
  
So he asks Magnus to let him think about it, and drunkenly curls up against his boyfriend’s side, drifting to sleep in the crook of his arm.


  * **Moving in together:**   Swerve is  _so happy_ at the prospect of finally having a roommate.  It almost doesn’t matter that it’s the mech he’s in love with, rather than just a friend; he’s just all, ROOMIE!  Let’s stay up late and watch old video clips and eat energon chips and play games and –  
  
Ultra Magnus already had reservations about this, and Swerve’s enthusiasm makes him suspicious enough to want to chuck the entire endeavour.  He caves when Swerve starts in with the sad turbo-puppy eyes, but lays down a list of laws half the length of the Autobot Code:  No eating in the room.  No fuelling outside of the Designated Fuelling Corner.  No touching Magnus’s things.  Ever.  He eventually relents on the idea that they should both be in recharge by 0100 and up by 0600 when Swerve points out that the bar is open into the wee hours, but Magnus insists that Swerve is to make absolutely no noise if he returns after Magnus is in bed.  And no one –  _no one_ – is getting glued to a recharge slab.  
  
I’ll give you three guesses how long these rules last.  
  
After many,  _many_ arguments (several of the nastier ones end with Magnus waking up to a room in utter disarray and strewn with confetti), they get Hoist to help build a dividing wall, giving them each their own space and their own entrance.  Magnus can keep his side exactly as he wants, and Swerve won’t touch anything; in return, Magnus does his best not to wince when he enters the chaos that is Swerve’s half of the room.  There are still a few kinks to work out – Swerve really wants more of Magnus’s time and attention than he generally gets, while Magnus would prefer fewer interruptions to his work.  But Magnus will admit that it’s sometimes refreshing when Swerve knocks on his door to drag him out of the room for an hour’s break, and Swerve finds it comforting to know that Magnus is quietly working away next door if he needs him.  And curling up together to recharge is a highlight of the day for both of them.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With  _Robots in Disguise_  – not the comic, but the show ( _Car Robots_ ).  I think it would be, perversely, a setting where Ultra Magnus’s serious approach could flourish without being mocked and tested constantly, and a place where Swerve could go on safe, fun adventures that don’t involve  _everyone he cares about dying_.  Magnus would be back under the command of an Optimus Prime, and most of the Autobot team would treat him with respect (hell, Baby!Prowl would probably follow him around like a duckling ).  Sure, there’d be a few rebels, like Sideburn, but for once he could  _actually discipline them._ (And I can’t help but think that after the  _Lost Light_ , Magnus would take a certain grim pleasure in being allowed to punish the flashy, mouthy young sports car of the group.)  
  
Swerve, meanwhile, could have a blast exploring human culture and sending long messages back to Rewind and the others about it, and he’d find quite a few laid-back soulmates among the RiD Autobots (X-Brawn seems like he’d be up for a good time).  He could also totally take on the Predacons with nothing but his wits, his one-liners and My First Blaster.  I’d  _pay_ to see that.   
  

  * **An au of my choice:** Human AU, 1920s Chicago.  Swerve runs a discreet little underground bar that caters to… shall we say, gentlemen who prefer the company of gentlemen.  He’s a snappy dresser and charming host who keeps a tommy gun under the bar, just in case trouble walks in the door.  He’s also a total gossip, who knows juicy details about everyone from top gangsters to corrupt politicians.  The fact that he’s occasionally willing to share that information has kept the police from shutting his speakeasy down through the years.  The second that Detective Magnus steps through the front door, his fingers are practically itching to slap the cuffs on the mouthy little barkeep, but he’s been warned by his superiors that Swerve is too valuable to lose.  
  
Swerve ends up taking rather a shine to the tall, dour cop with his somber blue eyes and big, capable hands, and over time, their conversations go from Magnus and his partner standing stiffly in the doorway, with the other patrons eyeing them nervously and Swerve smiling and babbling away in a panic, to the cops slouching at the bar, having a drink (just coffee, and they always pay for it fair and square), while Swerve leans on one elbow and regales them with the latest gossip, occasionally touching Magnus’s arm for emphasis.  Sometimes he forgets to let go.  
  
Sometimes Magnus forgets not to smile.  
  
One night, the two cops are the last ones in the bar as Swerve is closing up.  Magnus is absently watching the little bartender tidy up when his partner gives him a sharp poke in the ribs.  
  
“ _Tell him._ ”  
  
“What?  What are you talking about?”  
  
Magnus’s partner folds his arms and gives a dismissive little  _pfft._ “It’s perfectly obvious how you feel about him.  The fact that he owns a place like this means he’s hardly going to be offended, whether or not he returns your interest – and I think we both know that he does.  And you’re never going to have a better opportunity.  I was under the impression that was  _why_ you suggested we stop by so late in the first place.”  
  
Magnus can feel his face heating up.  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.  I certainly had no such intention, and the kind of thing you’re suggesting would be –”  
  
“Listen.”  The other man’s voice softens a bit.  “You and I are never going to be the guys who leave the station at five to go home to the wife and kids, even if either of us were wired that way.”  Magnus’s blush deepens at that – he didn’t realise that his lack of interest in women was that obvious – but his partner holds up a hand.  “And meeting people we  _can_ be with, who can understand – that’s rare.  Don’t let it go.”  
  
Magnus turns this over in his head for a long moment, then slowly lets out a breath, and nods.  
  
“All right.  I’m leaving now; you’d better not lose your nerve on me.”  There’s a thin smile, one Magnus hesitantly answers with a smile of his own, and a clap on the shoulder.  
  
“Thank you, Prowl.”  
  
When Swerve turns around and sees Magnus sitting there alone, his eyes widen; grinning, he comes over and perches on the bar.  “So, can I take it you’re off duty now, Detective?”  
  
“ _Very_ off duty,” Magnus answers.  For a second, he lets his eye run over the bottles behind the bar.  A quick belt of moonshine would make this so much easier… but no.  It’s out of the question, for an officer of the law.  And even beyond that, he realises that he doesn’t want to taint this.  
  
Instead, he reaches out and briefly covers Swerve’s hand on the bar with his own, then pats the vacant bar stool beside him.  “Join me?”


  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  I would really, really love to see a situation where Magnus and Swerve commit a crime together and have to go on the run.  And Magnus is utterly calm and a complete badass during the commission of it, but afterwards he freaks the hell out, because this is playing havoc with his whole idea of himself as the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, and Swerve only just manages to restrain him from turning them both in.  So Swerve, for whom planning is  _not a strong suit,_  ends up being the one who has to think about disguises, and contacts, and evading the authorities, all while dragging along a partner who is slowly coming apart at the seams.  Of course, I’d want to see Magnus eventually rally for both their sakes, but I think it would be a fascinating way to take them both far, far outside their comfort zones.




	13. Blaster and Soundwave (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Tumblr user Whozawhatcha. Thank you so much for the prompt!
> 
> Warning: The dark!fic for this one contains non-consensual bonding, sex with seriously dubious consent, and awful things happening to cassettes. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> (And a general note on cassettes and consent - the forgotten Jane Austen novel!: I write the cassettes as fully sentient adults, but I’m aware that not everyone sees them that way. Please note that some of the following, especially the "moving in together" fic, could be disturbing if you perceive them as children or otherwise incapable of consent.)

  * **Fake dating:**   You’d think that Soundwave would be by far the more embarrassed of the two, right?  Yeah.  So does Blaster, at first.  He’s extremely skeptical of this mission – interfactional cooperation is always dicey, and he doesn’t trust Soundwave as far as he could throw Cybertron – but orders are orders, and he  _is_ looking forward to embarrassing the slag out of his opposite number.  So he starts in with the slightly patronising affection (chucking Soundwave under the chin, petting his helm); the over-the-top cutesy nicknames; and the love songs.  Oh, Primus, the love songs.  The Cybertronians came to Earth in the era of power ballads, and Blaster wields them like weapons:  Soundwave can’t even walk in the room without Blaster starting up a medley of the sappiest music he has, while wearing a giant shit-eating grin.  
  
Soundwave reviews all of this in his mind, and he smells a challenge.  
  
Blaster first becomes aware of it when he’s bending over to retrieve a stray data pad, and suddenly “She’s a Brick House” starts blasting from behind his upraised aft.  When he straightens up, there’s Soundwave, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt.  From that moment, it is  _on_.  Blaster gives Soundwave a cheeky peck on the mask; Soundwave retaliates by fondling Blaster’s ear finials until he melts into a puddle.  Soundwave insists on holding hands as they walk past their respective commanders; Blaster recites love poetry in the mess hall.  If either of them hesitates, the other needles him relentlessly.  
  
The two armies find this funny and disturbing by turns, but it’s the cassettes who really hate it.  Both sets of symbionts vehemently protest the idea when it first comes up, and resent sharing space with the other team.  For the first week, they’re sullen and rebellious (Soundwave has to keep Frenzy from setting their room on fire).  In the second week, it sinks in that this is really happening, and they’re genuinely miserable.  By the third week, they’re so horrified by their bosses’ game of romance chicken that the two sides have taken to drinking together and commiserating with one another.  Blaster and Soundwave are both unnerved to return to the room one night and find Rumble and Rewind slumped against each other, giggling at their bosses, but they figure it’s better than the cassettes killing each other.  
  
 _Just._


  * **Bodyswap:**   They’re both communications officers, so their first thought upon realising what’s happened is:   _Information._ They each set out busily trying to hack the other’s security systems, while also trying their best to pass as their counterpart.  Blaster has an easier time of it; all he has to do is copy Soundwave’s distinctive speech pattern on the rare occasions where he even needs to talk.  As long as Megatron doesn’t ask him to read anyone’s mind, he’ll be fine.  Soundwave has a harder time sounding like Blaster.  He can mimic more “normal” speech patterns when he has to, sure, but there’s an art to using slang correctly – it can’t just be downloaded like a formal language.  It requires a certain feeling for the culture and for the flow of the language.  Soundwave ends up laying it on way too thick, and has to backpedal quickly after he calls Optimus Prime a “funky hep cat hoopy frood”, pleading exhaustion so that “his” leader doesn’t send him to the med bay to have him checked for glitches.  
  
Both tapedecks know they have to work quickly, because of the cassettes.  They can’t risk docking with the enemy cassettes, for fear of discovery, but the longer they put it off, the more suspicious the symbionts are going to get.  And meanwhile, their own cassettes are going to  _need_ to sync up sooner or later, for the sake of their health.  So Soundwave and Blaster both rip all the information they can get their hands on, and then the phone call happens.  It’s short, with, for them, surprisingly little trash talk and taunting.  They both understand that they have no choice but to work together to reverse the swap.  
  
Interestingly, they each trust that the other won’t hurt their cassettes, even though either Soundwave or Blaster would be freaking out over that possibility if they’d been swapped with anyone else.  Carrier protocols run deep, and unless there’s a direct order or an urgent tactical need that overrides them (and we’re not talking “killing that cassette might hinder the enemy’s information gathering in the future”; it would have to be more like “that cassette is running towards my faction leader holding a fragmentation grenade”), they drive carrier models to protect all symbiont models, even those who don’t belong to them.  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Both mechs’ commanders – Optimus with his belief in freedom, and Megatron with his horror of being under others’ control – immediately step in to reassure them that they don’t  _have_ to go through with this.  There’s got to be another way to pacify (or kill) the aliens, reverse the effects of the sex pollen, etc.  Sex with a hated member of the opposing faction will only be considered as an absolute  _last_ resort.  
  
Both leaders are taken aback, and a little bit disturbed, by the way Soundwave and Blaster start insisting  _in unison_ that, no, seriously, it’s fine.   _Really_ fine.  No need to start a war with an alien species or break out the microscopes to analyse the weird new aphrodisiac.  It’s much easier if they just accept it.  They’ll do their duty.  
  
They will do that duty  _right through the mattress._  
  
When they’re finally left alone, there’s a hunger to the way they fall on each other, grappling and licking and biting.  Neither of them hesitates for a second; this is an opportunity they may never get again.  The sex has the same taunting and savagery, and the same intimate knowledge of one another, that they display in combat.  And it’s a long, long time (and several rounds) before they leave that room, on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion.  Hey, they had to make sure the toxin was purged/the aliens were satisfied/no one was going to die, right?  
  
What they really would have liked would have been to fall into recharge together, but they know neither of them can trust the other enough to be that vulnerable.  They do hold on to the memory of that night, though.  Soundwave is worried that it weakens him, but he can’t seem to stop dwelling on it.  Blaster clings to it like a talisman – it’s a visceral reminder of what he’s giving up to remain an Autobot, and, therefore, of how much being an Autobot means to him.  
  
The cassettes tease them both for a bit, but stop when they realise that it seems to be making their carriers sad.


  * **Dark!fic:**   Remember how I said that it’s ingrained for carriers not to hurt one another’s symbionts?  That’s true… but the devil is in the details.  Specifically, the details involved in the definition of “hurt”.  
  
Let’s backtrack.  
  
Soundwave is fed up with occasional assignations whenever he and his counterpart can sneak away.  He wants Blaster, and he wants  _all_ of him – frame, processor, and spark.  Blaster is equally clear that that’s never going to happen.  He’s not really a mech to settle down, and even if he were, there’s no way it would ever be with a Decepticon.  
  
So Soundwave, in desperation, does the only thing he can think of.  He kidnaps Blaster’s cassettes.  He knows that simply holding them hostage isn’t going to work; Blaster would agree to anything to get them back, and break his word as soon as they were returned, and if Soundwave tried holding onto them indefinitely, he’d be setting Decepticon HQ up for an Autobot assault the likes of which they’ve never seen.  
  
Instead, he decides to let the cassettes go, but first he… talks to them.  Just talks.  And plays them a little music.  The same kind of music, in fact, that he used to control humans’ minds at Dance-a-Tron, but perfected over the intervening time so that it works on Cybertronians, as well (especially when helped along by Soundwave’s telepathy).  His hold over the symbionts’ minds doesn’t last long, but it doesn’t have to.  It’s long enough to implant a single idea.  
  
For Blaster, the pain feels like dying.  One by one, in an agonising cascade, his symbiotic bonds are ripped away from him.  For the first time in millions of years, he’s utterly alone in his own head, and the only thing he can imagine is that Soundwave has murdered them all.  
  
The reality is worse.  
  
Blaster is beside himself with relief when a call comes through, and Rewind’s face, tear-stained but very much alive, fills the screen.  The relief turns cold, however, when he realises that between hiccupping sobs, Rewind is saying, “I’m sorry,” over and over.  Then the camera pulls back just enough for Blaster to see clever, familiar white fingers stroking Rewind’s helm.  Behind Rewind and Soundwave, the rest of Blaster’s cassettes are sitting hunched on the floor, unable to meet Blaster’s optics.  Blaster’s sudden terror is confirmed by the simple declaration, “Autobot cassettes, now bonded to Soundwave.”  
  
Soundwave isn’t gloating, but he might as well be.  There’s a grim inevitability to it:  one broken bond left the cassettes’ sparks horribly weakened, and a second would kill them.  Blaster will never get to experience the bond with his cassettes again…  
  
… except through Soundwave.  A spark-bond between two carriers means that they share their symbiotic bonds.  
  
Blaster scrubs his hands over his face, as if trying to wake himself up, and finally, in a hollow voice, accepts Soundwave’s offer.  
  
The sex leading up to the spark-bond itself is even rougher than usual, with Blaster biting and shoving and Soundwave just taking it, considering it the price for his manipulation.  He has no idea what the real price is going to be.  
  
At last, Blaster opens his chest plates, revealing the glow of his spark.  Soundwave’s vents hitch as he leans forward to join his own spark to it.  In the ecstatic rush of thoughts and memories flowing from one mech to the other, Soundwave glimpses –  _something,_ a whisper of an intention, and he tries to pull back in a panic.  It’s too late, though.  The bond is sealed, and Blaster uses it to reach out to all of the cassettes simultaneously, Autobot and Decepticon alike.  He sends a devastating burst of energy through the link.  Both carriers drop to their knees, screaming in pain, as they feel every one of the cassettes convulse and die.  
  
For a long moment, Soundwave is paralysed:  he can only stare at Blaster in disbelief, before finally managing,  _“Why?”_ He never hurt them!  He couldn’t!  He would have been a good carrier to them, whatever Blaster decided!  How could Blaster  _do_ such a thing?  
  
“What you did was the same as forcing them, Soundwave,” Blaster coughs out, getting to his feet.  “You saw what it did to ’em.  Better to die than be trapped forever with you, after that.  And the same goes for your own - they’re better off like this.”  
  
Soundwave is shaking.  For a moment, Blaster is sure his counterpart is going to attack him.  Then Soundwave straightens up, and points in silent triumph.  
  
 _Blaster_ is still stuck with Soundwave.  Once spark-bonded, always spark-bonded.  
  
From that time on, their sexually charged rivalry becomes hatred, vicious and all-consuming.  By day, they do their best to tear each other apart on the battlefield, despite each of them knowing the almost unbearable pain that will result if the other dies.  And by night, Soundwave’s thoughts come snaking up through the bond, whispering in Blaster’s audials, throwing up hideous visions of his dying symbionts with accusation in their fading optics.  Worse yet, Blaster’s music has become corrupted.  There’s a new, jarring thread lying underneath each melody, like backmasking.  He can’t quite make it out, but he can’t shake the sense that they’re words, murmuring nightmarish things to him.  Whether it’s Soundwave or his imagination, he can’t even say anymore.  All Blaster knows is that he can never listen to music again.


  * **Secret kinks:** Music is a not-so-secret kink for both of them, of course.  What’s less well known is that this passion extends to each other’s voices.  Soundwave goes a bit weak in the knee-joints when he hears Blaster’s deep, smooth voice describing in explicit detail what he intends to do to Soundwave, and Blaster has filed Soundwave’s laugh under “things that should be creepy but are somehow really hot instead”.  He also loves hearing Soundwave’s voice ordering him around, or claiming Blaster as his.  That doesn’t mean Blaster’s going to obey those orders – they both enjoy a bit of a (consensual) struggle for control in the berth.  
  
Blaster’s the more tactile of the two mechs, and loves to have the inside of his tape deck fondled (especially the pulleys).  This is actually something of a taboo in carrier culture, because it’s widely believed that the hookups where symbionts dock should be reserved solely for the symbiotic bond, and shouldn’t be sexualised.  Soundwave doesn’t really get it (his own are so sensitive that teasing them borders on pain), but neither is he particularly concerned with social taboos (Decepticon, y’know), so he’s happy to indulge Blaster.  Soundwave’s own tastes lean more towards mental connection through a hardline or telepathic link – that’s what pushes sex over the edge into (if you’ll excuse the pun) mind-blowing territory for him.  Blaster’s a little wary of this, but he agrees to it occasionally, confident in his ability to open parts of his mind to his partner, while keeping certain crucial bits – like, say, the bits dealing with future Autobot war strategies – locked away.  And as far as Blaster’s concerned, Soundwave’s overwhelmed reaction when they do link up mentally is worth the risk.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   Blaster is lying half-wrecked on the battlefield, his wounds still smoking, as Soundwave stalks towards him.  Spitting out a mouthful of energon and denta fragments, Blaster hauls himself up on one elbow and attempts a grin.  “Always knew it was gonna end like this.”  Soundwave is keeping his distance, gun poised as he circles Blaster, checking to see how bad his injuries are.  He’s damaged, as well, and reluctant to come within reach.  Blaster laughs at the hesitation.  “C’mon, you sad excuse for a sound system.  Let’s dance one last time.”  
  
“Autobot:  damaged.  Near offlining.”  Soundwave sidles in close enough to press his gun to Blaster’s temple.  “Autobot,  _sad excuse_.  Soundwave, superior.”  
  
Blaster is out of weapons, out of strength; but he manages one last surprise – his arm snakes up and wraps around the back of Soundwave’s helm, and he kisses the centre of Soundwave’s mask.  It’s supposed to be mocking, an over-the-top comedy smooch to unsettle the Decepticon, but it isn’t.  It’s a little bit bitter and a little bit hungry, and it makes Blaster ache, suddenly.  He’s so distracted by the unexpected feelings that he almost misses the mask retracting, but there’s no way to miss the warm mouth abruptly meeting his.  
  
And then Soundwave walks away.  
  
“Hey, what gives?” Blaster shouts after him, realising it makes him look ridiculous, but hardly caring.  
  
Soundwave glances back over his shoulder, and shrugs.  “Blaster… interesting.”


  * **Meeting the parents:**   It’s easy to assume that the well-adjusted, gregarious Autobot must have had a supportive family, and the taciturn Decepticon comes from a messed-up home life, but it’s precisely the other way around.   
  
Blaster’s visits home are marked by silence – a heavy, choking silence that’s only occasionally broken by a terse word here and there.  There’s no music.  Blaster’s parents don’t approve of his taste in music.  If the subject comes up, they will always make a point of looking around at their lush drawing room, hung with exquisite examples of the most refined Cybertronian instruments – a quad harp, a set of cyber violins, a crystalline flute organ, magna drums – and sighing noticeably.  They paid for their son’s lessons on each and every one of those instruments, and he mastered them all.  Why has he taken to listening to alien trash?  But then, Blaster’s parents don’t approve of much – his attitude, his speech (which he deliberately laces with Earth terms, even when speaking Cybertronian, just to annoy them), his life choices (bad enough to go to war, but to end up throwing his lot in with that ragtag bunch on the losing side?  And not even to achieve officer rank?), or his rowdy bunch of cassettes who end up tracking rust all over the foyer.  
  
Strangely enough, they  _do_ approve of Soundwave, who receives the dubious honour of being the first correct choice Blaster has made since he became an adult.  Soundwave is eminently presentable, quiet, disciplined, and clearly going places in life (third-in-command!  My, that  _is_  impressive!), and besides, a cross-faction relationship proves that Blaster was never  _really_ that invested in this whole Autobot nonsense.  Which makes Blaster feel oh-so-much better about his already fraught choice of partner.  Soundwave doesn’t want the approval.  He sits stiffly on the sofa, giving one-word answers to the endless questions, and when Blaster inevitably ends up storming out – usually blaring his loudest rock songs on the way – he follows, only pausing to shoot Blaster’s parents an icy glare.  Then he plays Blaster’s favourite songs to him throughout the long journey back home, and it’s enough to get Blaster to stop shaking by the time they arrive.  
  
Soundwave would never admit it, but he absolutely relished that one time when Blaster’s parents invited Soundwave’s symbionts along, and Rumble and Frenzy trashed the entire house while Mother and Father Blaster could only look on in mute horror, unable to bring themselves to criticise their revered guest’s charges.  
  
Soundwave’s parents, on the other hand,  _adore_ their boy.  They’ve always told him he could do anything, and they were never prouder of him than on the day when he joined the Decepticon ranks.  You see, they’re civilian builds themselves, like all carrier models, but it never seemed fair to them that warbuilds should be sent off to fight and die for the good of Cybertron, then face suspicion and discrimination on their return.  That Soundwave not only shares their values, but cares enough about them to put his life on the line for what he believes – supporting the rights of a group he doesn’t even belong to – is a deeply selfless thing in their eyes.  Soundwave isn’t able to visit them often in their offworld exile, but when he does, he’s showered with hugs and homemade energon goodies and a million well-meaning questions about the progress of the war.  His parents read all the news coverage of the conflict they can get their hands on; it’s their way of showing support.  
  
They’re suspicious of Blaster at first:  his teasing banter with Soundwave can look a little bit bullying from the outside, and both Soundwave’s parents bristle at the thought of anyone hurting their son.  But they quickly pick up on the warm glint in Soundwave’s optic whenever Blaster makes fun of him.  And if Blaster makes Soundwave happy, well, then, he’s always welcome.  Soundwave is a little embarrassed when his parents and his partner bond over music and their mutual stake in the Soundwave Admiration Society, but he’s pleased, as well.  Mama and Papa Soundwave even take a liking to Blaster’s cassettes.  Blaster’s mind almost breaks the first time he sees super-aggressive Ramhorn practically purring as Soundwave’s dad gives him chin-skritches.  
  
From time to time, one or other of Soundwave’s parents will take Blaster aside, and ask whether he can’t do something about the amount of time Soundwave spends working.  He’s so dedicated, poor dear, but he’ll make himself sick if he keeps this up.  Please?  Blaster always smiles, and tells them he’ll try his best.  
  
Soundwave puts together the pattern – that for several weeks after each visit, Blaster puts extra effort into seducing him away from his computer terminal and into berth – but he never identifies the reason.


  * **Moving in together:**   Okay, I think we all know what the problem with this is going to be, and it’s not the occasional friction of a mech who loves the sound of his own voice living with a mech who appreciates silence.  That’s a source of mild tension, but they’re mature mecha who are able to compromise.  
  
It’s the cassettes.  
  
 _Ten_ rambunctious, absurdly powerful mecha whose only common traits are that they’re fiercely loyal to their carriers, and they loathe the other faction with a passion.  The joint quarters become a battlefield within minutes, and a smouldering ruin within hours.  Blaster and Soundwave try orders; they try threats; they try cajoling; they try pleading; and eventually, they try slipping out to get a quiet drink somewhere and leaving the cassettes to it.  This last isn’t very effective, but it sure makes them feel better.  
  
The two carriers, though, are being a bit naïve to assume that the conflict stems from loyalty to  _them_.  That’s part of it, yeah, but the cassettes have been at war for nine million years in their own right.  They’ve got their own system of rivalries and revenge going…  
  
… and in more than one case, that hatred is mingled with a sexual tension that rivals their carriers’.  
  
When Soundwave and Blaster return, the place is even more of a mess (if that’s possible), but the cassettes are no longer fighting.  Well, not  _exactly,_ although the clangs and screams coming from the berthroom alarm the two carriers, until they figure out that the words being screamed are things like “more” and “harder, you fragger, _harder_!”  And they’re being screamed in voices that sound remarkably like Eject’s and Frenzy’s.  Meanwhile, Rumble and Rewind, taking things at a slightly saner pace, are sloppily making out on the sofa, and twin purrs are emanating from the study.  Hell, Ratbat is cuddling up to Ramhorn, and that doesn’t even make any goddamn logistical  _sense._   Only Soundwave’s birds remain aloof, watching the others with amused disdain.  
  
After some thought, Blaster and Soundwave agree to move back to separate quarters for now:  they’re at a good point in their relationship to live together, but it would mean rushing the progress of four other potential relationships to a damaging degree.  So things go back to normal… except that both Soundwave and Blaster turn a blind eye if their cassettes just  _happen_ to sneak off in the night, or smuggle a guest into their quarters.  
  
Laserbeak and Buzzsaw are laughing at all of them.


  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With  _The Blues Brothers._ Because Soundwave, Jake, and Elwood in a row – three shades-sporting, laconic badasses with a passion for music – would be  _unstoppable._ (If you think I mostly want to see Soundwave in a suit and Blaster singing with Cab Calloway, you’re not entirely wrong.  Also, I am amused by the thought of the Blues Brothers’ police car suddenly ejecting them and transforming into Prowl, who is  _so done with their shit._ Ironhide could be the Good Ol’ Boys’ van.) __  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Blaster’s free-flowing Auto-Bop, with its interplanetary flavour, is one of the hottest clubs in Iacon, equaled only by Soundwave’s cutting-edge, industrial-feeling Dance-A-Tron.  The rivalry between the two establishments is legendary.  Club-goers tend to pledge their loyalty to one or the other; a few even get tattoos bearing the red Auto-Bop logo or the purple symbol of Dance-A-Tron, and the two groups have been known to brawl in the street on Saturday nights.  They each have their celebrity adherents, too.  The scions of the wealthiest families in the Towers, like Tracks and Mirage, are perpetually being photographed dancing on tables and doing body shots off each other at Auto-Bop, while the prince of Vos went so far as to have the Dance-A-Tron sigil tattooed on his  _wings,_ and his elegant Seekers have all followed suit.  
  
And the clubs themselves are constantly trying to one-up each other:  when Auto-Bop starts importing music from far-flung organic planets, Dance-A-Tron introduces Soundwave’s latest personal creation, hypno-pop.  After Soundwave books famed beat poet Sky-Byte to perform, Blaster calls in a favour to get the world-renowned musician and dancer, Jazz, for a one-night extravaganza.  The two club owners curse each other’s names on a regular basis, but they’ve never actually met.  
  
All that changes when a new club enters the scene:  a multi-floor corporate behemoth called Club Unicron.  Soundwave suddenly shows up at Auto-Bop, causing Blaster to look up and falter in the middle of a set.  When he recovers and goes to greet his not-terribly-welcome guest, Soundwave explains that if either of them is to survive, they’re going to have to work together.  Cue epic showdown, as Soundwave and Blaster rally the support of their patrons and challenge the proprietor/DJ of Club Unicron to a three-way public dance-off to determine whether the newcomer, or the existing clubs, are going to close shop forever.  
  
If this was ever made into an episode, it would need to be  _as 80s as possible._ I want synthesizers and breakdancing and bots in fingerless gloves and legwarmers!  And, if at all possible, [Soundwave standing outside Blaster’s window and holding John Cusack over his head](http://weheartit.com/entry/72839343/via/abelsanchez390).  Thank you.


  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  Human fantasy AU, where Soundwave and Blaster are both members of an ancient order of mystical assassins known as skinchangers.  Their powers allow them to project themselves into the consciousness of any animal – to control them, yes, but also to see through their eyes and experience the world with animal senses.  Skinchangers use the information gathered in this way to plan their assassinations, but they always make the kill personally.  They often have two or three animal familiars (with fellow predators, like wolves, wildcats, and birds of prey, being the most common).  
  
It’s not unusual for skinchangers to join armies or rebel groups, as war can provide an excellent cover for the assassinations their order instructs them to carry out.  So there’s definitely a precedent for two skinchangers finding themselves on opposite sides of a war, as the mysterious mage Soundwave and the charismatic bard Blaster do.  The accepted protocol is to avoid the other skinchanger as much as possible, taking care not to harm them or their familiars.  But for these two, the armies they serve have become much more than convenient hiding places:  each skinchanger has come to believe in the cause he fights for, to the point where their loyalty to their respective forces threatens their loyalty to their ancient order.  And when they see someone who should be a brother in league with the enemy?  They swear to destroy each other at all costs.



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll have you know that I looked up the actual names for parts of a tape deck for this answer. The things I do to write robot pornography. ;)


	14. Knock Out and Breakdown (TFP)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Tumblr user Fannishcodex. Thank you for the prompt!
> 
> WARNING: Dark!fic for this one contains rape, gore, and graphic torture and mutilation. Read at your own risk. Other sections are consensual (although a few contain vague mentions of torture and/or injuries).

  * **Fake dating:**   Weirdly, it’s Breakdown who’s more at ease with this.  Knock Out isn’t exactly bothered – he’s got a theatrical bent anyway, and the idea of putting on a show rather appeals to him.  Besides, Breakdown is a good-looking mech, so it’s not like fawning on him in public is a hardship.  But the difference is, Knock Out’s being very deliberate about it; every wink, every arm around the waist or set of claws trailing showily over Breakdown’s chest, is carefully calculated for effect.  Breakdown just slides right into it:  for some reason, going from, “Sure thing, Doc,” to, “Sure thing, sweetspark,” feels perfectly natural to him.  He puts it down to how comfortable the two of them are with each other.  
  
It isn’t until their mission is over that Breakdown realises switching back to platonic terms isn’t nearly as easy.  And that’s when he gets an inkling that maybe, just maybe, this is something he wants for real.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   Breakdown’s frame has never been so beautifully polished in his entire function.  He  _gleams_.  Which would be more impressive if Knock Out wasn’t using that exquisitely cared-for body mostly to chase Breakdown around, yelling, “Watch the finish!  _Watch the finish!_ ”  He does manage to bully Breakdown into letting him polish up his own frame while Breakdown is, ahem, borrowing it, so Knock Out spends the evenings buffing out dings (while tutting over each one) and carefully restoring his finish to a mirror shine.  It’s an interesting experience for him, actually, to look at his own frame from the outside and linger over getting the detailing exactly right.  Breakdown is a little restless at first – he’s used to being the one wielding the buffer, not the one lying still and being pampered – but he starts to luxuriate in the touches and the attention.  The next day, he shows up with twice the number of dings, and Knock Out starts to wonder whether he’s now doing it on purpose.  
  
Fighting is a disaster, at least initially:  Breakdown doesn’t have nearly the stopping power he’s used to, and no practice in using Knock Out’s greater agility, while Knock Out is clumsy in Breakdown’s frame, as he keeps trying to force it into the acrobatic leaps of his own fighting style.  A few sparring sessions allow them to get used to at least the basic strengths and weaknesses of their new bodies, but it still feels  _weird_.  What’s a hell of a lot more fun is driving.  Knock Out misses his speed, but gets a kick out of powering through the desert sands as easily as he could fly down a paved road.  Breakdown, meanwhile, finds it thrilling to go so fast, and even enters a street race or two to see what it’s like.  Knock Out finds his spark warmed, watching how enthusiastically his partner takes to racing.  Breakdown is worried at first that it might make Knock Out wistful for his old body, but Knock Out is far too excited about finally being able to share his favourite hobby to be melancholy.  
  
Of course –  _of course_ – they have sex while swapped.  It gives Knock Out, who normally doms from the bottom, a chance to dominate _and_ top, and lets Breakdown experience what it’s like to be spiked by a much larger mech.  In a way, it’s also a little bit like roleplay, with each of them getting to play around with some of the things they usually appreciate about the other in berth:  Knock Out growls and rolls around filthy phrases in Breakdown’s deep voice and takes delight in running those large, surprisingly gentle hands over his partner, and Breakdown tries out some of the dirty talk he normally loves hearing in Knock Out’s smooth voice.  (He also combines his knowledge of the weak points in his own frame with his newly-acquired claws, to phenomenal effect. ;))  It’s a fun experiment, but ultimately, they each realise they prefer their usual roles – and that it’s hotter to watch one another than to watch themselves from the outside.  
  
The swap isn’t too problematic, overall – until the first wounded Vehicon hits Knock Out’s operating table.  Despite his jokes about being better at taking things apart, Knock Out is a gifted surgeon.  Breakdown is an excellent and experienced nurse, but he’s not anywhere near the same level… which is a problem when he’s currently in possession of Knock Out’s trained fingers.  Even with Knock Out murmuring instructions in his ear and, at points, guiding his hands, the patient only barely makes it through.  Once he’s finally in recharge, doped up on pain inhibitors, Knock Out and Breakdown look up at each other’s shocked, energon-spattered faces.  
  
“Well…” Knock Out begins in Breakdown’s bass rumble.  
  
“… scrap,” Breakdown finishes.


  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   As with fake dating, I think they’d both take this one pretty well in stride.  After all, they’ve been at war for millions of years; they’ve had to do much worse, much weirder shit to survive.  And they’ve got a lot of affection for each other, and they’re both good-looking mechs – it’s not as though they haven’t both  _thought_ of it before.  Spending an evening making one another feel good is not an unappealing prospect.  
  
Knock Out immediately takes charge, flashing his best seductive gaze as he tugs Breakdown by the hand into his quarters and double-locks the door.  He’s had Breakdown on his operating table often enough (not like  _that_ – although now they’re both picturing it) that he knows a fair number of his partner’s sensitive points, but he’s delighted to discover others as he eagerly runs his claws over Breakdown’s frame.  He already knew about the vulnerable abdominal plating, and the intricate circuitry of the wheel mounts; the fact that Breakdown’s crest is so deliciously  _responsive_ comes as a surprise.  Breakdown is rather shyer at first, hyper-aware of his greater size and strength, but he’s got a few tricks of his own, picked up from close observation whenever he buffs Knock Out’s finish.  The right touches to Knock Out’s wheels, his headlights, his slender hip joints and the curves of his thighs, make him melt.  
  
Then Breakdown’s hands find Knock Out’s audial fins, and Knock Out lets out an honest-to-Unicron  _whimper_ , before grabbing his partner and growling, “Pin.  Me.  Against.  The wall.”  
  
And they’re off to the races.  
  
Afterwards, lying companionably in the wreckage of Knock Out’s quarters, they both agree without hesitation that this should be a regular event.  After all, what’s wrong with two best friends helping each other relieve a little tension once in a while?  They already have boundaries in place that separate the med bay, where Breakdown is Knock Out’s assistant, from the battlefield, where they’re partners, from their downtime, where they’re buddies.  This is simply another layer.  
  
Love is something else, something that gradually creeps up on them and eventually erodes the boundaries between the layers, but that’s another story.   
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   What you have to understand, to get how this played out, is that Knock Out was  _devastated_ by Breakdown’s death.  He didn’t show it, of course – displaying weakness like that is near-suicidal in the Decepticon army, and Knock Out may not choose to play the game very often, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how the game is played.  But underneath an exterior that was more exaggeratedly flashy and callous than ever, he was numb and miserable.  It felt so  _wrong_  that he wasn’t there at Breakdown’s side when he died, after so many millennia of having each other’s backs, that it was almost impossible for Knock Out to accept that Breakdown was really gone, especially with no body in evidence.  Some small part of him even held out hope that it was all an awful mistake.  
  
So when he sees Breakdown alive and well, it’s as if his wildest hopes have been vindicated.  And then Breakdown opens his mouth and speaks to him in Silas’s voice, and Knock Out  _breaks_.  Just a little.  Just enough.  
  
Silas panics when Lord Megatron agrees to give him to Knock Out for dissection, but even then, he doesn’t grasp what he’s really in for.  Knock Out doesn’t rip him apart right away.  Instead, he begins disassembling him  _slowly_.  Take a piece here – of metal or flesh; it doesn’t matter, because Silas feels everything – and then allow Silas to languish in the pain, to really absorb the shock and loss, for days or even weeks.  Then take another.  From time to time, give one of the lost parts back – maybe for real, maybe in a mangled or twisted form, a foot attached to the stump of an arm, an organ restored in a place where it functions, but grinds excruciatingly against bone every time he breathes.  The outer form of Breakdown, though, Knock Out tears apart and then restores to perfection, piece by piece, almost lovingly… for what comes next.  
  
It takes months for Knock Out to tire of dissection, and start to get even more creative.  That’s when the injections begin:  toxins and viruses that burn through blood and energon alike, leaving Silas a weak, pain-wracked, delirious mess.  It’s during one of these sessions that Silas – feverish and half-conscious – dimly feels Knock Out’s claws trailing up his thigh.  He braces himself for the sting of another chunk of plating being ripped free, but it never comes.  Instead, that bizarrely gentle caress glides up to the joint of his hip, claw-tips dipping into the juncture and brushing over wires.  Silas cringes; it’s been so long since touch meant something other than pain, and longer still since anyone has stroked him like  _this,_ so Knock Out’s touch brings with it a revolting burst of arousal.  It only intensifies as the caresses continue, until there’s a grating sound and the entire pelvic panel slides aside, and some… _thing_ emerges from beneath it.  Silas knew it was there; his scientific team didn’t stop making cracks about it for days after they examined Breakdown.  But he never imagined that the jokes were true, that its function really is the same as it would be in a human, and the feeling of being hard – so terribly like it once was in his old body – is making him nauseous.  And then Knock Out climbs on top of him, and Silas can feel himself sliding into wet, clenching heat.  
  
He moans weakly, trying to look away, disgusted and ashamed and wanting, all at once.  Knock Out is riding him, crooning in his ear, “Breakdown,  _Breakdown_.  It’s been so long, sweetspark.  Come on, give it to me, frag me harder.  Make me yours.  I can feel how much you  _love_ this.”  And he’s right – to Silas’s horror, his stolen body is  _responding_.  
  
Afterwards, Knock Out goes into a frantic rage, tearing strips off Silas once more.  Silas can’t tell whether he’s furious at him for not being Breakdown… or at himself, for allowing himself to believe, for a moment, that Silas really was.


  * **Secret kinks:**   Well, as the body-swap section suggests, they’re _really_ fond of each other’s voices (and who can blame them?).  Knock Out is usually the one who brings out the more elaborate dirty talk; Breakdown sticks to straightforward endearments and purred appreciation, but he can still make Knock Out’s knees go weak, especially with that deep, teasing laugh.    
  
They’re also not above blatantly abusing army-issue medical equipment for their own purposes. ;)  Breakdown has always loved watching Knock Out work – those agile claws moving deftly over wires and circuits – and being strapped down to a medical berth while the same claws trail over his frame is darkly thrilling.  And if they occasionally dig in and draw energon, that only sharpens the pleasure.  Knock Out is just as fond of having Breakdown at his mercy as Breakdown is of being there, and loves to take the opportunity to test out his latest toys (many of them his own inventions).  The electric prod in particular gets put to extremely good – if utterly protocol-breaking – use.   
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   Knock Out and Breakdown have been fragging each other for a while before they kiss for the first time.  It’s a casual arrangement.  They like one another well enough, sure, but at this point, if anyone were to suggest that they were actually  _boyfriends_ , they’d laugh.  
  
Until Breakdown disappears after the fall of Praxus.  
  
A good few of their troops are missing, so while the other Decepticons are securing the city, Megatron sends out search parties.  Knock Out is at the forefront of the first party.  And the second.  And the one after that.  The other searchers rotate out to get some rest, but he keeps going as long as he can, and then only spends half a shift recharging before he’s out again.  Eventually, though, Megatron orders him back to the sickbay:  the missing mecha are starting to trickle back, and most of them are wounded.  They need him.  
  
Some are coming back in body bags, but Knock Out tries not to think about that.  
  
Breakdown comes limping back on the fourth day; he was returning to base when he was waylaid and pinned down by a stray Autobot patrol.  His injuries are light, but the med bay is finally becoming less crowded, and Knock Out orders him to sit on one of the berths to be checked over.  
  
“Looks like the damage is mostly in the knee joint.  How far can you move it?”  
  
Breakdown slowly straightens his leg, wincing.  “Lucky that ’Bot had such lousy aim.”  He manages a wink for Knock Out.  “Don’t worry, Doc – I shoved that rifle so far up his exhaust that the only way he’ll be able to fire from now on is by sneezing.”  
  
Knock Out laughs at that, as he continues to move up Breakdown’s body.  “Your shoulders look pretty strained; any pain in the joints here?”  
  
“Just a little worn out is all.”  
  
“Mmm.”  The claw-tips brush over his cheeks and forehead with clinical detachment.  “Any pain here?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Good.”  Knock Out’s voice is teasing, but the kiss, when he abruptly arches up and presses his mouth against Breakdown’s, is anything but:  it’s desperate and too hard, the angle awkward, the pressure bruising, and Breakdown is frozen in place.  The moment is over quickly, as Knock Out slides down and busies himself with his surgical instruments.  “I – I thought…” he begins, not looking up.  
  
Breakdown’s hand nudges his, then slips into his grip to twine with his fingers.   
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   Knock Out’s parents are instantly fond of Breakdown, and that’s precisely the problem.  Knock Out grew up poor – the posh accent and the carefully polished frame are his way of deliberately distancing himself from his past.  His parents, though, are proud of where they come from, and tend to bristle at their son’s affectations, assuming (not without reason) that he thinks he’s too good for them.  So when he brings home a mech from the labouring caste, and sees the matching shit-eating grins on his parents’ faceplates, Knock Out feels a cold sense of dread settle over his spark.  
  
Sure enough, Mama and Papa Knock Out take this as an admission that their son is finally starting to learn his place in the world, and they seize every opportunity imaginable to rub it in.  Oh, so you do construction, Breakdown?  It’s so good to see that  _some_ people still value a  _real_ day’s work.  And look at you tucking away that energon like a proper mech.  Bet you don’t hold with all those frothy, namby-pamby drinks  _he_ likes so much.  Why did it take him so long to bring you to meet us, anyway?  Are we an embarrassment now?  _You_ don’t think we’re embarrassing, do you, Breakdown?  
  
Breakdown isn’t quite sure how to act:  he doesn’t want to alienate his partner’s family, but he can hardly ignore the pained expression on Knock Out’s face.  He manages to keep up a kind of noncommittal civility, and lets Knock Out hurry them away at the first opportunity.  In bed that night, Breakdown kisses a trail down Knock Out’s throat and murmurs, “I like the way you talk.  I like your shiny frame, I like the work you do, I like the way you eat.  And if they can’t see what you’re worth, frag ’em.”  Knock Out doesn’t reply, except to let out a long, relieved sigh and settle into the crook of Breakdown’s arm, languid and strutless as the tension finally leaves him.  
  
Interestingly, while Knock Out only ramps up the rich accent and elaborate speech when he visits his own parents, he tones them down a little when he goes to see Breakdown’s, slipping into a more typically working-class accent.  Even so, Breakdown’s parents are rather in awe of Knock Out.  That doesn’t mean they’re nuts about their son dating him, however.  Mama and Papa Breakdown would be the first to tell you that their family have been labourers all the way back to the days of the Thirteen, and they’ve survived this long by keeping their heads down.  They see Breakdown’s starting a cross-caste relationship as just looking for trouble.  It irks Knock Out a bit, but Breakdown’s parents are so kind to him, regardless of their misgivings, that he can’t really hold it against them.  He also trusts Breakdown, who deals with all of this by letting his parents voice their concerns, hugging them, and then putting everything they’ve said firmly out of his mind.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   It sounds odd at first, but Knock Out and Breakdown don’t actually share quarters until the  _Nemesis_ – and even then, not right away.  At the height of the war, they tended to be stationed on warships or bases with huge complements of troops and strict military protocols, so Breakdown had his place in the barracks and Knock Out his quarters by the medbay.  Okay, true, they didn’t  _actually_ sleep apart most nights:  as long as they maintained the official fiction of separate quarters, and as long as both of them were still reachable and ready to deploy at a moment’s notice, no one raised a fuss if Breakdown’s bunk in the common quarters was rarely slept in.  But each of them had a place apart from his partner, even if they had to share that space with other soldiers (and medics, too, in a few cases).  
  
The dynamic of their relationship shifted when they got to Earth, and went from the constant stresses and crowds of active military service to spending all of their time purely enjoying each other’s company, travelling wherever they wanted, recharging together under the stars (even if it usually had to be in vehicle mode).  For the first time, they were essentially living together.  When they move to the  _Nemesis,_ they quickly slip back into the familiar routine:  separate quarters, clandestine visits in the middle of the night.  But Knock Out misses the closeness of sharing space with Breakdown, and eventually petitions Lord Starscream for permission to have Breakdown move into the CMO’s quarters with him.  Starscream doesn’t give much of a frag where his soldiers sleep, provided that they’re still carrying out their duties, and he even harbours a small hope that Breakdown’s constant, steady presence will help ground Knock Out a bit.  Hell, the thought of Breakdown waiting for him at home might even entice him to spend less time racing.  It’s worth a shot.  
  
Knock Out is practically giddy, and runs to tell his partner.  No more sneaking around; no more frustrating evenings spent waiting for the other soldiers to fall asleep; no more rushed goodbyes before reveille.  Breakdown is Knock Out’s refuge in so many ways – his lover, his best friend, his invaluable assistant, his nurturing buffer and detailer – and Knock Out loves the idea of being able to come home to the one person he can trust after a long day of dicey political games with the other Decepticon officers.  
  
Breakdown, much to Knock Out’s disappointment, is less than thrilled.  He’s pissed off and hurt that Knock Out didn’t include him in the decision, and when his partner brushes that off – “Yes, yes, but even so, aren’t you pleased?” – Breakdown shifts his feet awkwardly.  You see, while Knock Out may not trust the other officers an inch, Breakdown has really bonded with the Vehicon troops.  He likes sharing barracks with them:  drinking, playing Praxus Fold ’Em and betting with monitor duty shifts, trading stories of home.  He’d prefer his mate’s company in the evenings, true, but he’s worried that moving in with Knock Out will cost him more than a few cyber-poker games.  The troops all know about his relationship, but actually living with the CMO in his swanky private quarters?  What if the soldiers decide he thinks he’s better than they are, or that he’s no longer one of them?  
  
The conversation becomes a serious argument, ending with Knock Out storming off.  The next evening, Knock Out puts a gentle hand on Breakdown’s arm to stop him leaving the med bay at the end of his shift, and murmurs, “Sorry.  I shouldn’t have pushed like that.”  
  
“Naw, Doc, ’sokay.  Just… let me think about it, yeah?”  
  
And he does – for about a week, until their next engagement with the Autobots.  Knock Out strays too close to that slag-sucking little glitch of a scout, and catches a blaster bolt right in the chest.  Breakdown stays preternaturally calm as he assists, handing Knock Out surgical implements so that he can work on his own exposed circuitry and shaking him awake when he comes close to passing out from the pain.  Afterwards, Breakdown helps Knock Out stagger next door to his quarters, and looks around thoughtfully as he lays his partner on the berth and stretches out beside him.  
  
Breakdown doesn’t have much in the way of material possessions, and he’s already so much in the habit of leaving things at Knock Out’s place for convenience that Knock Out doesn’t even notice he’s moved in for about a day.  (In fairness, Knock Out  _is_ pretty woozy still. )  When it finally clicks, Knock Out sets down the energon tea Breakdown made for him next to his sickbed and gives his partner a sidelong look, before casually asking whether Breakdown doesn’t want to put up that nice group picture of the Stunticons somewhere.  Maybe on the shelf over the console?  
  
Breakdown freezes for a moment, then shrugs, grins, and goes to retrieve the photo.  
  
In the end, the Vehicons barely remark on Breakdown’s change of address.  But then, it does help that he still never misses Praxus Fold ’Em night.


  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With  _The Italian Job_  – the original version with Michael Caine.  Knock Out and Breakdown, as magnificent as they are as both a fighting duo and a medical team, are kind of wasted in warfare.  What they’re made for is  _capers_.  Knock Out is clever and politically savvy, but he doesn’t have the attention span or the sheer hunger to spend millennia trying to climb the ladder of rank.  He does best with underhanded schemes that have big risks and quick payoffs, or he starts to get bored and restless.  As for Breakdown, structured warfare isn’t really his thing.  He’s more warrior than soldier, gravitating towards close partnerships and intimate personal rivalries, and he seems like the type who’d prefer a gang where everyone’s equal and they all go out for a pint of highgrade after a job.  And let’s face it – with Knock Out’s deviousness and Breakdown’s skills, they’d be pretty close to unstoppable.  
  
I think Knock Out would be irresistibly drawn to Caine’s character Charlie Croker.  (Say THATfive times fast.)  Brilliant mind, boatloads of style,  _and_ a healthy appreciation for fast, beautiful cars?  Croker would be the ideal partner for a lavish heist, and the idea that it was going to go down in Italy – home of some of the most gorgeous vehicles on Earth – would be the energon icing on the goodie.  Knock Out and Croker would plan the theft together, with Breakdown working alongside the human team on the practical side of things (especially on demolitions – at least Breakdown understands when you’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!).  Hell, in a pinch, Knock Out might even let Croker ride in him.  Provided he didn’t touch anything, of course.  
  
It’s still entirely possible that Knock Out and Breakdown would leave their human allies stranded in a bus hanging halfway off a cliff while they themselves made off with their ill-gotten gains.  But I like to think that Knock Out would retain enough of a soft spot for Croker to make him the model for his holoform driver, so that for years afterwards, Knock Out’s driver would look like a young Michael Caine in a fabulous suit.   
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Breakdown is a young Wrecker whom Bulkhead and Wheeljack have taken under their wing, until a particularly risky mission ends with him being captured by the ’Cons.  His captors interrogate him, but Breakdown refuses to give them anything, eventually passing out from the pain without breaking.  He’s taken out of his cell and tossed to the Decepticon CMO to get patched up enough that he’ll be ready for a second round of questions.  
  
At first, Knock Out and his patient trade barbs back and forth as the medic works, but Knock Out is rather impressed to find that, instead of getting prickly as most Autobots do, Breakdown actually finds Knock Out’s needling funny, and gives back as good as he gets.  The young Autobot’s resilience is… well, it’s appealing, to be honest.   So, even after Breakdown is sufficiently healed up to return to the interrogation chamber, Knock Out ends up fibbing to keep him in the med bay longer.  Their mocking turns to almost-affectionate teasing, then starts to give way to real discussions about the war and the reasons each of them has for choosing his side.  Knock Out should really know better than this, but he’s beginning to hope that, with a little patience, Breakdown might just come around to the Decepticon cause.  
  
Of course, Knock Out is far too pragmatic to risk getting in trouble for the sake of some Autobot prisoner, however charming… right?  
  
Right?  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  I’d love to see a story about these two running around Earth before they were summoned to the  _Nemesis._ I like to imagine that Knock Out makes a tour of the best illegal street races in the world.  And hey – with a good holoform, he might even be able to enter a few official races.  In particular, I imagine him and Breakdown carrying out a few smash-and-grab robberies to get the money to cover their entrance fees for [El Dakar](http://www.dakar.com/index_DAKus.html), a madcap, all-vehicles-welcome multi-country race through some of the toughest terrain in the world.  They race to win, of course, but even beyond that, they just relish the chance to race _together_ , playing off one another and building up to breathtaking speeds across the empty desert flats.  (And occasionally getting so worked up by the heat and the speed that they stop for a quick frag behind a sand dune. ;))  
  
When they aren’t racing, they’re wandering, fascinated by the weirdness of this alien world.  Human civilisation may be absurdly young and human beings squidgy and inferior, but it turns out that they’re capable of occasionally producing things of great beauty (with their vehicles topping Knock Out’s personal list, of course).  Sure, nothing they create is a patch on the art and innovation of Cybertron in its heyday… but, well, Cybertron hasn’t really created _anything_  for millions of years.  It’s nice to be on a world where people still care about beauty, and still invent things for purposes other than war.  And it feels good to be somewhere where the rain doesn’t burn.




	15. Drift and Perceptor (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was an anonymous request. Warning: some body issues in the dark!fic.

  * **Fake dating:**   This is pretty awkward for both of them.  Perceptor has always been a private mech, but after his modifications, he’s become almost obsessively so.  Hardly surprising, since he’s had enough of people prying into and judging what he does with his body to last a lifetime; he doesn’t need them starting in on his love life as well, and that’s exactly what dating Drift (even just for show) is going to open him up to.  Drift isn’t any more comfortable.  He’s an Autobot now, but old habits die hard, and Rule 1 of the Decepticon army is that You Do Not let anyone know when something – much less some _one_  – is important to you, because it  _will_ be used against you.  In addition, Drift is hyper-aware that Perceptor is doing this for his benefit.  The other Autobots are having a difficult time trusting him, but Perceptor figures that if they see that someone as loyal and famously level-headed as himself is happily dating Drift, they’ll come around.  Once Drift is on firmer footing with his new comrades, he and Percy can quietly drop the act.  Drift is grateful for the kindness, but the fact that Perceptor is clearly struggling with the experience makes him squirm.  
  
They keep the performance subtle, since sudden sloppy makeout sessions in public would look downright suspicious coming from these two:  instead, Perceptor conspicuously holds Drift’s hand over lunch in the mess hall, and Drift takes up walking Perceptor to his lab in the mornings, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek before he goes inside.  It’s enough to set the army’s inventive gossip mill churning.  What both Drift and Perceptor like best, though, isn’t the affection so much as the guaranteed time together; those conversations become their favourite part of the day.  When Drift starts making a point of going to Perceptor’s quarters for a few hours every evening, the whispers  _really_ start.  In reality, Perceptor usually spends that time working while Drift meditates, and then they sit down together for a cup of energon or a game of Go, but it’s difficult to imagine that they’d feel that time was any more precious, even if they  _were_ sleeping together.  
  
When the shocked murmurs among the troops eventually turn to dirty jokes, then to simple acceptance, Drift tells Perceptor that it’s okay for them to stop pretending.  Perceptor isn’t as relieved as he imagined he’d be to wake up the next morning and walk to the lab by himself.  
  
He  _is_ relieved, beyond reason, when he gets to the mess hall and sees Drift waiting at their usual table.  They don’t hold hands, or kiss goodbye, but it’s enough.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   Perceptor  _loves_ this.  His own body was sliced apart and remade into a weapon, not seamlessly and not without pain; but Drift’s body  _is_ and always has been a weapon.  Being able to move with such deadly fluidity, as if he was born to do it, feels amazing.  There are no calculations to the way Drift fights – just sharp, unerring instinct.  Perceptor hasn’t felt so at peace with his body, so  _whole_ , in a very long time.  And it makes him feel guilty, because he’s supposed to be the one working on a way to reverse the switch… but a significant part of him doesn’t want to.  
  
The appreciative looks he gets as Drift are new, but by no means unpleasant.  The other members of the  _Lost Light_ crew know by now that Drift and Percy are a couple, so no one does anything more forward than looking (even Rodimus, who admittedly looks for a  _long_ time; Perceptor’s not completely sure whether the captain suspects there’s something different about his third-in-command, or whether he’s just appreciating the view when Perceptor bends over to pick something up).  And Percy’s been stared at for much less complimentary reasons before, thanks to his upgrades.  This makes a nice change.  
  
Drift feels awkward in his new body.  It’s too tall, too gangly, and doesn’t respond with the same grace he’s used to.  On the plus side, the sniper upgrades are like a new toy, and he spends hours down at the shooting range.  He was damned good with a gun when he was Deadlock, but the precision he can achieve in Perceptor’s frame is breathtaking.  Also, while Perceptor doesn’t mind the newfound attention, Drift is enjoying being more anonymous.  Heads that turned when Drift would walk past – out of suspicion or lust or simple curiosity – don’t so much as twitch when Perceptor passes by.  He’s just another Autobot, and Drift finds that rather relaxing.    
  
Now, if he only knew what to do about Brainstorm following him around everywhere…  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   At first, they both approach this as a simple duty, nothing more.  The prospect doesn’t particularly bother them.  Perceptor already views his body as simply a tool, divorced from his emotions; Drift doesn’t, but he had to do much worse than this to survive in the Dead End.  They’re each thankful that it’s the other they have to frag – someone they like, someone who gets them – but at the end of the day, the physical act means little to them.  
  
Or so they think.  
  
Even now that they’ve been friends for a while, Perceptor’s view of Drift is still a little bit tinged with awe.  This is not only the mech who swooped out of nowhere, at the risk of his own life, to cradle a dying Perceptor and carry him to safety; this is also the one mech who simply stood by him and  _liked_ him for himself at a time when no other Autobot could get past their opinion on his modifications (whether that opinion was “finally useful” or “defiled your body” or “just another clown with a gun”).  Perceptor labels his feelings towards Drift “gratitude” and “respect”, rather than “crush”, but it’s hard to remember the distinction the second Drift, with a flicker of need deep in that steady blue gaze, lifts his hand and trails hesitant, questioning fingertips down Perceptor’s chest.  Abstract admiration connects with sheer hardline  _desire_ so abruptly and unexpectedly that it leaves him gasping.  
  
Drift has a certain fascination with Perceptor, as well – he’s one of the first mecha to really appreciate Drift for who he is, not who he could be, or how he could fit in to some grand scheme.  And Drift’s affection, unlike Perceptor’s, is usually physical in nature.  He craves touch, and he’s been so long without it.  Drift has gotten to the point with Perceptor where he feels free to rub the other mech’s shoulder, or rest a hand on his arm, and he knows that that’s a privilege:  Perceptor doesn’t let many people that close.  It makes Drift worried about what will happen when they push further.  But when he brushes his fingers over Perceptor’s plating, and sees the scientist’s optics flare wide as his vents hitch, all Drift’s reservations melt away.  
  
They end up against the hab suite wall, kissing with a ferocity that scares them both a little.  Drift’s hands are frantic, stroking and grabbing everywhere, while Perceptor’s are firm, insistent, pinning him in place.  There’s a short but vehement tussle over who’s going to top, and it feels  _good_ , each of them letting his more violent side off the leash a bit and knowing that the other can take it.  That they don’t have to be so carefully guarded with each other, because neither of them is going to run screaming in the other direction.  
  
Perceptor wins, incidentally.  Drift doesn’t mind  _at all_.  
  
Afterwards, they stretch out on the berth (which didn’t see a whole lot of use  _during_ ), not quite touching but close enough to feel each other’s warmth, and take stock of the damage.  Scratches; trickles of energon; each of them copiously marked up with the other’s paint, in complementary slashes of red and white.  And they think about heading back outside, where Perceptor is just a string of calculations until someone needs him to be just a gun, and Drift is a model Autobot who never entertains an untranquil thought.  
  
Suddenly, it seems exhausting.  
  
“If you were amenable to…” Perceptor starts, at the same moment that Drift begins, “You know, we could…”  
  
They shoot each other tired grins, and without much conscious thought, their fingers find each other and entwine.  None of the details of  _what are we_ or  _what are the rules_ are hashed out, not then; that’s for a later conversation.  All they manage to agree on is that today won’t be the last time.  And for the moment, that’s enough.  
  
Which isn’t to say that they don’t go for round 2 once they’ve gotten their strength back.  Gotta make sure those aliens get their money’s worth, after all.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   You know those differences in Drift’s frame between  _All Hail Megatron_ , the ongoing, and  _More Than Meets the Eye_?  That’s not a retcon.  Just as Perceptor has modified himself, he’s been modifying Drift, as well.  Piece by piece.  Drift had to beg, at first.  Just a little, he said.  Just enough to complete the changes Wing and the Circle of Light had made.   _Make me better,_ he pleaded then, _make me more useful._ Perceptor, of all people, could never refuse that request.  
  
As time has gone on, though, Perceptor’s come to realise that the improvements to Drift’s combat abilities are little more than tweaks.  That’s not what Drift is after.  He wants the aesthetic changes.  Martial lines rounded out into more pleasing, almost organic curves; the last traces of Deadlock smoothed away from his helm and face.  _Make me better,_ Drift said, but what he meant was,  _Make me look like an Autobot.  
  
_ It’s not enough.  Perceptor could have told him that,  _should_ have told him that, still should.  A new face and frame, however innocent, won’t make people forget what Drift is.  But it’s every other week now, Drift coming into the lab after hours with schematics he jotted down on a datapad – open the armour up  _here_ and  _here,_ tighten the curve  _here,_ snip my tires to make me faster, carve away at me to make me beautiful – and Perceptor still says nothing. Maybe it’s because he loves Drift.  Or maybe he understands the feeling of never quite being enough.  
  
Or maybe it has more than Perceptor would like to admit with the way Drift moans under the scalpel, the way he tosses his head and tells Perceptor to keep going,  _take all of me, make it hurt._  
  
It can’t last.  Eventually, the fact that the changes still haven’t bought him acceptance starts to make Drift desperate.  It’s after the fiasco with Overlord, though, that he realises how he can finally get a new frame that will make the Autobots love him.  
  
When Drift goes to visit Rodimus, he’s calm and reassuring, everything the young leader needs at that moment.  Rodimus trusts him implicitly.  Trusts him enough to turn his back on him, in fact.  The last thing he’s aware of is the hilt of a sword crashing down on the back of his head.  
  
Perceptor’s done spark-transfer surgery before – long ago, but it’s remarkably straightforward once you understand the theory.  The next morning, “Rodimus” banishes “Drift” for his crimes, stripping him of his Autobrand.  And if “Drift” tries to protest – well, even if anyone _could_ hear him over the jeers and accusations of his fellow Autobots, who would believe an ex-Decepticon traitor who’s clearly unhinged and babbling about body-swapping?  
  
The  _Lost Light_ crew does take note of the fact that their leader seems more serious and level-headed afterwards, but they put it down to the sobering effects of Overlord’s attack.  If anything, it makes him a better captain than he’s ever been.  Drift, meanwhile, is high on the crew’s adoration.  He’s never felt like this before.  
  
The high doesn’t last, though.  A month goes by, maybe two, and then “Rodimus” is knocking on Perceptor’s door late one night.   _It’s the paintjob,_ he says plaintively.   _And the design of the helm – it’s too ostentatious, isn’t it?  Wouldn’t it look better if we rearranged the biolights at the small of my back?  I think we can streamline my alt mode, too._  
  
And Perceptor takes the scalpel, and hates his own weakness, and begins.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**   I’m a big believer in Dom!ceptor.  Drift loves being tied up and at his partner’s mercy.  He’s always gotten off on pain, and he gets a thrill out of thrashing against the bindings with all his strength and not being able to pull free.  It’s a deliciously scary fantasy that at the same time feels safe and reassuring.  And Perceptor likes being in control for once.  Dominating also focuses all of Perceptor’s vast and terrible intellect and focuses it with laser intensity on Drift – his reactions, his expressions, his needs – which is something they both enjoy.  It gets Perceptor out of his head and into the moment, and it makes Drift feel adored.  
  
They also enjoy swapping roles every once in a while, but Perceptor isn’t into receiving pain, so Drift ties him up and teases him rather than disciplining or hurting him.  
  
It almost goes without saying that they both find watching each other in combat hot, but Drift also gets secretly turned on by Perceptor playing teacher.  It’s partly that he finds intelligence hot, and partly that Perceptor is inviting him into this secret world (and treating him as smart enough to follow along).  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   Perceptor barely remembers the first time.  He was slipping in and out of consciousness, giddy from the loss of fuel.  All he remembers is being held tightly against smooth white plating, and a strangely organic smell (the lingering scent of the fabric Drift had been wearing, he realised later) underneath the hot scent of spilled energon.  Then a voice he didn’t recognise murmured, “It’s going to be all right,” and a warm mouth pressed reassuringly against his helm.  
  
It isn’t until long afterwards that Perceptor wonders whether Drift really believed what he said, or whether he kissed Perceptor as a last kindness, believing Percy would probably die.  He’s not entirely certain he wants to know.  
  
Their first  _proper_ kiss takes place before combat.  They’re facing each other in the back of the shuttle, waiting for the drop; Percy is checking his rifle, Drift is going over his Greatsword one last time with a whetstone.  Perceptor finds himself watching Drift:  the way his optics unfocus as his hands move automatically make the action seem almost like a meditation.  Drift looks up and catches Perceptor’s eye, and gives him a smile – not the shiny, serene smile he gives to all the other Autobots.  This one is small, and wry, and _real_.  And before Perceptor really registers what he’s doing, he’s across the shuttle, tilting Drift’s chin up with one finger and kissing him firmly.  
  
Well, we who are about to die salute you, and all that.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   Drift doesn’t have any contact with his parents, for good reason.  Perceptor looks them up in the archives out of curiosity, and is confused by what he finds.  Typical lower-middle-caste couple, not affluent, but comfortably enough off.  Respectable professions.  No criminal records.  It isn’t exactly what he pictured from Drift’s rare hints about the home life that originally drove him into the Dead End.  
  
He doesn’t ask Drift about it, but when the other mech mentions, in an offhanded way, that he decided to call himself Drift because it made living on the streets sound almost romantic to his young mind, Perceptor can’t resist.  “I didn’t realise that wasn’t your birth name,” he remarks.  Drift shakes his head.  “So what did your parents name you?”  
  
Drift crosses his arms, and doesn’t answer for a long moment, glaring venomously into the distance at something only he can see.  “They  _didn’t_.”  
  
Perceptor doesn’t ask at all, after that.  
  
Perceptor’s parents died during the war, but he takes Drift to see the shabby little hamlet where he grew up.  His childhood home is a shattered ruin (not that it was much to look at when it was standing), but the tumbledown fence behind it, where little Percy used to trail a piece of rebar along the slats or sit and scratch out numbers and words in the rust, is still there.  Perceptor reaches out to touch it hesitantly, smiling at the memory of the nights he was out there by himself until long after sunset.  His parents and siblings rarely came looking; they never quite knew what to do with the strange, skinny, quiet little lad, and if he was happy sitting behind the back fence alone with his incomprehensible squiggles, then they weren’t going to question it.  “Benign neglect,” Perceptor tells Drift, with a rueful grin.  “Most days, there wouldn’t be enough energon for a morning _and_ an evening ration, anyway; I think my mother realised that if I was distracted enough, I wouldn’t think about being hungry.”  
  
Drift is very quiet, and Perceptor thinks he knows why.  He’s told Drift about his family before, but skimmed over the details of their circumstances, and he knows that Drift probably assumed Perceptor grew up among the intellectual elite.  He wonders whether Drift is weighing his own upbringing against Perceptor’s poverty, and thinking about how Perceptor managed to claw and scrape his way to the Science Academy, while Drift ended up in the gutters.  
  
Perceptor wraps an arm around Drift’s waist, and kisses his ear finial.  “It occurs to me,” he murmurs, “that we’re not that dissimilar.  A real pair of strays, aren’t we?”  
  
Drift turns and buries his face against Perceptor’s shoulder.  “Not anymore.”  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   This isn’t a decision they take lightly.  Both mechs value their privacy.  They finally settle on a large hab suite, with space for Perceptor’s experiments on one side and Drift’s practice mat on the other, and Drift helps Perceptor design and install a Japanese-style sliding wall between the two, so that they can each have their own space when needed.  
  
All these precautions still don’t make the process go smoothly, though.  Drift is fond of music – soothing when he’s meditating or training, fast and upbeat at other times – and it drives Perceptor nuts.  For his part, Drift isn’t too keen on the whirrs/pings/muffled explosions that issue at all hours of the night from the table full of experiments Perceptor deems too precious to store in the lab.  The place always smells faintly of sulfur, but Perceptor complains when Drift tries to cover it with incense.  Drift’s attempt to rearrange Perceptor’s workspace along more spiritually harmonious lines is the last straw, and they storm off to their old, separate quarters, Drift in a silent rage, Perceptor muttering disparagingly about crystals and ley lines.  
  
A couple of days pass, before Drift shows up at Perceptor’s quarters, bearing the scientist’s neglected evening ration as a peace offering.  He ends up spending the night – and the next night, and then Perceptor stays over in his quarters the night after that.  When he goes into the lab the following morning, Brainstorm smirks and makes a sly comment about how Perceptor didn’t enter from the direction of his  _own_ quarters; when the only reaction that gets is a troubled frown, Brainstorm asks in exasperation, “Why don’t you two just move back in,  _and build a thicker wall_?”  
  
Perceptor stares at him wide-opticked, and Brainstorm gets to experience the unparalleled thrill of having thought of something that didn’t occur to the resident genius.  
  
Sure enough, dividing the suite into two proper rooms with a connecting door (and appropriate sound dampening) allows Drift and Perceptor to coexist happily, doing as they please with their separate spaces, but able to slip next door to spend time together whenever they feel like it.  Brainstorm’s additional advice that they include “a device to zap Drift’s stereo with lasers if it goes above a certain decibel level, seriously, Perceptor, I can whip you up one right now,” goes tragically unheeded.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With  _Transformers Prime_.  Okay, maybe not so much a crossover as TFP versions of the characters, but it still counts, dammit!  The way I’d love for it to play out is this:  Megatron and his officer corps on Earth have been cut off from the few other Decepticon ships roaming the galaxy for years now, so the Decepticon leadership is unaware of Deadlock’s defection.  Deadlock – or rather, Drift – had his adventure in New Crystal City, then met up with a few remnants of the now-defunct Wreckers, saved Perceptor’s life, and fell hard for him.  Eventually, the tiny band split up even further, and Perceptor and Drift decided to travel together.  They arrive on Earth, following Optimus Prime’s signal, but when Perceptor comms the Autobots and is told that the main Decepticon force is also on the planet, he and Drift hastily cook up a plan.  Perceptor makes it sound to Prime and the others like he’s travelling alone.  He quickly packs Drift into an escape pod and fires it off, then arranges his own rendezvous with the Autobots; Drift, using old communications codes, sends a ’Con distress signal that the  _Nemesis_ picks up.  Megatron welcomes back his old friend Deadlock with open arms (though he still tells Soundwave to keep an eye on him; he’s not a  _moron_ ), and presto!  The Autobots now have a mole in the Decepticon ranks… a mole operating under deep suspicion, with his life hanging by a thread.  
  
Starscream, incidentally, reacts as though someone has just introduced another tiger to his mountain.  Deadlock is pretty, has a talent for violence, and was one of Megatron’s favourites back in the day?  Okay, that bitch had better sit his five-dollar aft down before the hissing, spitting, strutting, viciously territorial Seeker decides to make change.  The other Decepticons are mostly intrigued but wary, except for Knock Out, whose wariness is taking a backseat to  _race me race me RACE ME WE MUST DO ALL THE RACING AND WE MUST DO IT NOW!!_  
  
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Perceptor is warmly welcomed by his old comrades (especially fellow Wreckers Bulkhead and Wheeljack), but he’s also worried sick about Drift.  They’ve agreed to contact each other only as a last resort, so Perceptor has no idea whether he’s succeeding, or whether he was discovered and tossed in a smelter on his first day back.  
  
That is, until the ’Cons manage to capture the Autobots’ latest recruit, and turn him over to Deadlock for interrogation…  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Perceptor and Drift:  guns for hire and occasional heroes, just wandering the world together, trying to survive and to maybe do some good along the way.  They take standard bodyguarding and mercenary work, as long as the people they’ll be fighting are also armed (civilians are off limits), but they also seek out situations – a village under thrall to a tyrannical local lord; a kidnapped child; a gang of soldiers bullying the prostitutes at a brothel – where a couple of fighters can make a real difference to people’s lives.  In many of those cases, they’ll refuse any payment apart from a hot meal before they ride off into the sunset.  
  
This could take place in the  _Transformers_ universe, but I think it would be more fun as a human AU.  Make Perceptor English and Drift Japanese, and set it around the late seventeenth century:  it would be interesting to play with the cultural clash between two civilisations with radically different views on warfare (the emerging European fixation with firearms versus Japan’s continued emphasis on hand-to-hand dueling), science, spirituality, exploration, sex – you name it.  The two of them could travel around Asia and the Middle East, learning about one another while also discovering a world where different cultures are becoming increasingly interconnected.  Drift is also looking for enlightenment, while Percy is excitedly gathering specimens to send back to the newly-created Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.  
  
To up the tension, Drift has some former compatriots combing the globe for him.  No one escapes the  _daimyo_ Tarn, right hand and official executioner of the  _shogun_ Megatron, or his band of elite samurai.   _No one._  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  Three words – Perceptor.  And.  Deadlock.  What if, instead of crashing on Theophany after escaping Turmoil’s ship, Deadlock is intercepted by the Autobots and captured?  Ratchet calls Perceptor to ask for his assistance in repairing their badly damaged, very dangerous prisoner, but then Ratchet himself is dragged off on a mission, leaving Deadlock in Perceptor’s custody.  Before he goes, Ratchet cautions his fellow scientist.  “I know this one,” he tells Perceptor.  “I remember him from back in the day, before the war.  And you can’t trust a Primus-damned word he says.  Watch yourself.”  
  
Perceptor is nervous, but he tries to remain detached as he goes to work on the captive; a patient is still a patient, regardless of faction.  And that intrigues Deadlock.  He watches Perceptor narrowly, all through the procedure and the subsequent checkups, and it’s on one of those visits that he starts talking.  It’s innocuous, at least at first.  Where did Perceptor come from, before the war?  Has he always been an Autobot?  That’s an interesting scope; what’s his alt mode?  Perceptor feels awkward, but he figures there’s no harm in the Decepticon knowing such innocent, public information.  After all, Deadlock is going to be disappointed if he thinks he can mess with his captor’s head.  Perceptor is far too rational for that.  
  
Right?  
  
Over the weeks that follow, Deadlock begins to tell Perceptor his own story.  He observes the reactions carefully:  the grim set of Perceptor’s mouth when Deadlock recounts a battle, the wince at the description of a wound, the frown Perceptor doesn’t quite manage to hide when Deadlock starts talking about the gutters.  Perceptor, as he checks the progress of a healing gash here or gently rotates a joint there, chips in from time to time to refute Deadlock’s accounts.  “No, that wasn’t Prime you were facing at Polyhex; that was Magnus’s command,” or, “The casualty figures were far lower than that, you know.”  Deadlock just nods and accepts the corrections, smiling in an almost conspiratorial way as they compare their memories.  Perceptor’s contributions always stick to facts, but his expression is eloquent.  Without meaning to, he betrays which of those memories make him feel fear, or regret… or doubt.  
  
As Deadlock gets stronger, Perceptor’s medical reasons to see him dry up… and yet Perceptor keeps coming, making late-night trips down to the brig so that they can chat.  Red Alert side-eyes Perceptor  _so hard_ , but as long as Perceptor insists they’re “medical consults”, Red can’t stop him.  He does impose a long list of rules – don’t give him any current information about  _any_ aspect of Autobot operations (Perceptor snorts at this in a “what do you take me for?” way), don’t give him any object that hasn’t been examined and cleared first, don’t hand him anything directly, don’t allow him access to any communications device or accept any comms in front of him, and for the love of Primus,  _don’t get too close to the bars._ Perceptor keeps them all religiously… until one night, when Deadlock is talking about the day two enforcers found him in the Dead End, high out of his mind.  “I could hear them talking about… about the things they were going to do to me.  The disgust in their voices, and the hunger.  But I couldn’t  _move._ I couldn’t even scream, Perceptor…”  He drops his head, but not before Perceptor thinks he sees tears starting to well in his optics.  
  
And Deadlock’s hand is wrapped around the bars, gripping so tightly that the metal of his joints is straining.  
  
Biting his lip, Perceptor stretches one arm out – keeping his body as far out of reach as he can – and covers Deadlock’s hand with his own.  The prisoner’s head comes up, and he stares at their hands for a long moment, almost in awe.  Then he says softly, “You know, Perceptor, that’s my trigger hand you’re holding.  Wonder how many of your friends I’ve killed with that hand?”  
  
He flips his palm over and grabs Perceptor’s hand before Perceptor can react, then darts his head forward, quick as a snake.  Perceptor braces himself for a bite – or worse – but instead, Deadlock’s mouth opens with astonishing gentleness against his fingers, and the hot tip of his tongue flickers over Perceptor’s plating.  Those red optics bore into him from the darkness of the cell.  
  
Perceptor struggles, and after a minute, manages to jerk his hand free.  He stumbles backwards before dashing out of the brig, deaf to Red Alert’s startled questions.  
  
“See you soon, Perceptor,” Deadlock murmurs, licking his lips, and smiles.




	16. Rewind and Prowl (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from Shafau. Thanks for the prompt!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of ended up more Chromedome/Rewind/Prowl OT3 than strictly Rewind/Prowl. I think that a huge part of what I find intriguing about Rewind and Prowl is their adversarial, competitive dynamic – and that stems from them being rivals for Chromedome’s affections. So, for many of the stories below, Rewind and Chromedome are or have been conjunx endura. Also, assume that Prowl and Chromedome have had a past relationship unless it’s stated otherwise.
> 
> Warnings: Character death in the darkfic, consensual bondage, a little bit of dubcon touching, and Prowl having a horrible home life (plus a brief mention of the offscreen deaths of children/teenagers). Also, wanton violence to tables. Wanton, I say!

  * **Fake dating:**   (Takes place while Rewind and Chromedome are together.)  
  
Have you ever heard the phrase “poisonously sweet”?  Yeah.  
  
Of all the couples I’ve done pairing memes for, I think this is the one where fake dating would induce the most vehement  _loathing_ in both parties.  But it’s for a mission, so it’s not like they can get out of it – faction comes before personal discomfort.  Even when it’s really, _really_ uncomfortable.  And so it becomes a bizarre point of pride for each of them that if anyone’s going to break, it’ll be the other guy.  And that’s where the poisoned sweetness comes in.  
  
Prowl crouches down to stroke Rewind’s helm.  “Are you sure you aren’t getting tired walking,  _sweetspark_? Would you like me to carry your adorably tiny frame around instead?”  
  
Rewind nuzzles against Prowl’s cheek.  “Oh, no, I’m fine,  _honey._ But aren’t you just the sweetest cutesy-wootsy-pie for asking?”  
  
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,  _baby._ I know you have soooo much trouble  _keeping up_.”  
  
“Oh, you know me,  _darling_ , I could go all night –  _as I’m sure your aft can attest._ ”  
  
Needless to say, it escalates.  Prowl has the advantage of height and alt mode, so he can “accidentally” leave Rewind in the dust or let doors fly back and smack his “beloved” in the nose, before scooping him up and cooing apologetically at him.  He quickly learns that picking Rewind up is a double-edged sword, however, because it puts the minibot within easy reach of vulnerable spots like his chevron and doorwings, which Rewind can then favour with a vise-like “caress”.  
  
Chromedome, who’s acting as their handler for this mission, is listening in on all of this.  He knows that he should probably be concerned, but honestly, he’s laughing way too hard to care.  
  
Strangely enough, the mission works out beautifully.  One of Rewind’s fellow archivists was suspected of being a Decepticon plant, and the idea was that if the Autobot 2IC suddenly had a plausible excuse to be hanging around his “partner’s” workspace all the time, the double agent might get nervous enough to make a mistake.  Turns out that “nervous” and “confused and profoundly disturbed” have similar effects.  Rewind and Prowl will insist until the day they go offline that this is what they had planned all along.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   (Takes place while Rewind and Chromedome are together.)  
  
Rewind isn’t usually one to panic.  He’s risked death in battle more times than he can count – but death is one thing, and suddenly carrying the entire burden of managing the Autobot army is quite another.  He wakes up at 0500 with three alarms blaring in his audials, and as soon as he groggily locates the switches to shut them down, they’re replaced by a veritable assault of pings and reports from every battlefield and outpost in every corner of the galaxy.  Rewind clutches his head, thinking that his archives are malfunctioning and throwing up random information, until he realises that the head he’s grabbing seems to be minus one camera.  And plus one chevron.  
  
Stumbling across the unfamiliar room, he finds the lightswitch, finds the mirror, and barely muffles a scream.  
  
Once he calms down a little, he figures out how to divert the incoming messages to whoever’s at the control desk, and tracks down the comm. frequency for Ratchet.  Rewind manages a fair impression of Prowl’s clipped tones as he informs the CMO that he’s not feeling well, and needs to be relieved from duty for the day.  Ratchet complies, clearly taking  _Prowl’s_ decision to stay home sick as proof positive that something really is wrong with him (and quite possibly affecting his processor).  Hanging up, Rewind logs a summons for Chromedome and… well,  _himself_  to come meet with Prowl as soon as possible, knowing that they’re offworld at the moment, so it’s likely to take at least a day to get back.  Then he braces himself, and takes stock in the mirror.  
  
All things considered, it could be worse.  Prowl’s frame is powerful, a weapon in bot form, and there’s no denying that the big lug is attractive… you know, if you like that sort of thing, obviously.  Hell of an alt mode, too.  Rewind can’t resist transforming and gliding back and forth, staring at his reflection.  He’s going to have to find a way to get out of HQ for a while and really see what his new body can do.  
  
All in all, as weird as this is, it’s still better than the fake dating.  That is, until Rewind starts picturing what Prowl is probably doing with Chromedome right now…  
  
Actually, Prowl thinks about it, but he can’t bring himself to.  He’s no stranger to ethical grey areas (in the way that Whirl is “no stranger” to wanton destruction), but there’s a massive difference taking advantage of someone for the greater good and doing it for his own satisfaction.  Besides, even if he didn’t have his conscience to deal with, he’s not sure he could handle it:  being looked at with the adoration that Chromedome reserves for Rewind, being called by  _his_ name.  He lets Chromedome nuzzle his throat as a silent “good morning”, and relishes every second, but he resolves not to let things go any further.  
  
You’d think that Prowl would be terrible at pretending – too stiff and disconnected – but what you have to remember is that he’s best friends with Jazz, and he’s been handling a team of black ops agents for millennia.  He’s picked up a few tricks… and he’s observed Rewind quite a bit.  So can pull off an uncanny Rewind impression.  The mask only slips a little when they receive a ping from Prowl’s office, and Chromedome gripes, “What does that glitch want  _now_?”  Prowl hopes that his sudden indignation comes across as annoyance with Prowl for the interruption.  
  
Even though he manages to pass, Prowl  _hates_ the switch.  He’s tiny!  He turns into a fragging memory stick!  He’s stranded a day’s journey from Autobot HQ, with no idea what Rewind’s mucking up in his absence!  And as the Tox-En icing on the nauseating goodie, he’s forced to admit, studying his new frame, that Rewind is  _cute._ Not only is that a nauseating thing to have to admit about your ex-boyfriend’s husband, but cute is the last thing in the world an Autobot second-in-command is supposed to be.  
  
The next day, Rewind is totally trying to get to grips with Prowl’s paperwork, and definitely  _not_ checking his desk for hidden drawers, when the door chime rings and Chromedome enters with a very pissed-off-looking “Rewind”.  Rewind-in-Prowl’s-body sits them down and steeples his fingers, starting off, “Now, I’m sure that you both know we have a very serious –”  
  
“Domey?” Prowl coos sweetly, and Rewind cringes to hear him using that nickname, even if the voice and intonation are Rewind’s.  “Could you lemme talk to Prowl alone for a sec?”  Chromedome gapes (and don’t ask how he does that without a visible mouth; something about the brightening of the visor), but he complies.  
  
If they were still in their proper bodies, Prowl would probably pick Rewind up by the scruff of his neck and shake him.  As it is, he climbs up Rewind’s back like it’s a tree – and oh OH OH OHHHHH _that’s_ what they mean when they say doorwings are sensitive – and smacks him upside the helm, clinging to his shoulder to hiss,  _“We can’t tell anyone about this!”_  
  
“What?  I mean,  _I_ haven’t, I don’t know who to trust here, but we can trust Domey!”  
  
“We don’t know what caused this to happen in the first place; what if it didn’t stop with us?  What if Chromedome secretly switched with, I don’t know,  _Starscream_?”  
  
That brings Rewind up short.  Well.  Not as short as usual, but you know what I mean.  
  
“So we have to make the switch back ourselves.”  
  
“The lab computers.  We can trust them, at least.  You trigger a proximity alert to get everyone out of the base to fight off a possible Decepticon attack; I’ll… Oh, Primus.”  
  
“What?”  
  
From his perch on Rewind’s shoulder, Prowl reaches down and peels a sheet of paper off the small of Rewind’s back.  It reads KICK ME next to an amusing (and actually very skillful) caricature of a frowning Prowl.  
  
“Oh.  Frag.  I didn’t even feel it.”  
  
“No, the twins are very good at it.  You have to remember to check.”  
  
Rewind glances at the tiny bot on his shoulder, and thinks of the millions of urgent messages he’s been dodging, the half-dozen bots just this morning who practically tried to break down the door of his “sickroom” because they had urgent business, the dozen more (among them, the Lambo twins, he realises now) who accosted him with questions when he snuck out for a cube of fuel.  Then he thinks of the KICK ME sign.  “Wow.”  
  
“I know.  For frontliners, they’re quite stealthy.”  
  
“No – I mean – wow.”  
  
Prowl shrugs, then quickly grabs at Rewind’s plating to keep from falling off.  “It’s all right.  They need to blow off steam somehow.”  
  
“I don’t think I could handle your life.”  
  
Prowl shoots him a glare, but in Prowl’s form, Rewind’s expressions are far more open and readable than they’ve ever been – and he looks sincere.  Maybe even a little sad.  Prowl studies his – Rewind’s – feet.  “Yes.  Well.  Your alt mode is ludicrous,” he murmurs, not really meaning it.  
  
They pull off the switch back, and Prowl, now back in his own form, orders extensive security checks, but apart from the Duobots (whose switch probably could have gone on forever without anyone else detecting it), no one else has been swapped.  Rewind keeps the KICK ME sign because the little scowling Prowl makes him smile.  
  
He just doesn’t like to think too hard about  _why_ it makes him smile.  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   (Takes place while Rewind and Chromedome are together.)  
  
Again,  _still_ better than fake dating.  At least they don’t have to pretend that they like each other.  
  
They’re both pretty uncomfortable, nonetheless.  Rewind is at least intrigued; while he doesn’t like to admit it, a part of him has always wondered what Prowl would be like in the berth.  You know, for historical record-keeping purposes.  Ahem.  Seriously, though, Chromedome chose Prowl once, and even if it was a long time ago and they were both very young, Chromedome doesn’t do things without reason.  It’s not that Rewind thinks Chromedome was with him just because Prowl was a good frag, but he clearly saw _something_ in the cold, prickly mech that Rewind has never been able to figure out.  Maybe if he sees Prowl with his guard down, it’ll start to make sense.  
  
Besides, who  _wouldn’t_ get a certain thrill from the idea of fragging the Autobot 2IC? ;)  
  
Prowl is in worse shape.  He’s never opened up to people easily, and while, yes, he has a remarkable facility for locking away his emotions and just Doing What Must Be Done, the fact that it’s _Rewind_ is getting under his plating something fierce.  It’s not just that Rewind is Chromedome’s  _conjunx._ That in itself would bother him, but (Prowl thinks to himself with a certain savage satisfaction) it’s not like that makes Rewind  _unique._   But of all the mech’s Chromedome’s loved more than Prowl, Rewind’s the only one who’s really butted heads with Prowl, over issues like Chromedome’s injecting.  And time and time again, Chromedome has listened to Rewind.  It’s not just that he chose being with Rewind over being with Prowl; it’s that he chooses going along with Rewind over being Prowl’s friend and ally, and somehow, that still has the ability to sting.  
  
So he’s not exactly cooperative when they’re alone together.  Despite the alien aphrodisiac that’s making both their systems run hot, Prowl folds his arms and reacts to every one of Rewind’s overtures with disdain.  “Oh, going for my doorwings,  _that’s_ original.  That certainly never occurred to  _everyone else I’ve ever been with_.”  
  
Another mech might have thrown up his hands at this point.  Chromedome almost certainly would have, and pulled out the patented silent treatment.  Rewind considers it… but then he plonks down on the berth, looks up at Prowl, and starts talking instead.  Tells him he understands that there’s no love lost between them, and neither of them wanted this; but he also knows that there’s only one way to get rid of the building charge before it completely overclocks their systems and puts them out of commission for weeks.  That would be bad enough for Rewind, but if it happened to Prowl, it would be a blow to the entire  _army._ And since they have to do this, well… would Prowl rather make it as drawn-out and painful as possible, or actually take the chance to let go and have some fun?  
  
If there’s one thing Prowl can’t resist, it’s someone logicking him into bed.   By the midway point of Rewind’s spiel, Prowl is sitting next to him on the berth.  He raises a brow at the “fun” bit, but when Rewind finishes, he says haltingly, “I – I was being irrational.  You’re right.”  Then, so low that Rewind can barely hear it, “I apologise.”  
  
“’Sokay.”  Rewind tilts his head.  “Hey.  I’ll bet you anything that you can’t make me scream.”  
  
That gets a smile.  “Oh, really?”  Prowl reaches over and starts toying delicately with the mount of Rewind’s camera, causing the minibot’s visor to shutter in pleasure.  Rewind retaliates by sliding closer and starting to stroke Prowl’s stomach, retracting his mask so that he can lower his head and trace the biolights with his tongue – and Prowl  _gasps.  
  
_ Things move pretty quickly after that.  
  
It’s a little awkward – they’re not used to each other, and Prowl’s never really thought through the mechanics of being with a mini – but exciting, as well, the hungry way they explore each other’s bodies, looking for sweet spots and exploiting each one they find with devilish glee.  And at one point, when Prowl is writhing under him, his head tipped back and his optics blazing, almost sobbing with need, Rewind admits to himself that, okay, yeah, he can kind of see it.  
  
Prowl wins the bet, by the way.  Rewind is furious when he finds out exactly what Prowl wants “anything” to entail…  
  
… but not as livid as Prowl is when he discovers that Rewind was recording the whole time.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   (Takes place while/after Rewind and Chromedome are together.)  
  
It’s strange, how unremarkable the end can be.  After the war is over, after all the adventures they’ve survived together, just one a vial of poorly filtered energon at a backwater space station, and Chromedome’s weakened spark clogs, blocking the flow of electricity.  He dies in his sleep without having felt a thing.  
  
Prowl has Rewind summoned to his office when he returns to Cybertron, and spends the better part of an hour screaming at him for not taking better care of a mech they both loved.  (He doesn’t put it like that, of course – “gifted mnemosurgeon” and “vital to the Autobot cause” are the words used, but Prowl can be awfully transparent.)  Rewind hunches in the over-large chair, a little ball of misery, and just takes it.  When Prowl eventually rights his desk and sits back down, venting raggedly, he asks about how Chromedome died.  Rewind offers to show him the footage:  Chromedome sitting across a cheap steel table, bickering with him; complaining that the fuel tastes funny; wincing and suddenly pawing at his spark chamber; waving off Rewind’s suggestion that they find a medic.  Prowl sits rigid throughout, only flinching when Rewind’s hand comes into shot to rest on Chromedome’s arm.  After Rewind stops the tape, though, Prowl glances up, looking suddenly bereft.  “That’s all?”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d want to keep going.  After that, we went back to our quarters and… you know.  And then we fell asleep, and when I woke up –” Rewind curls in on himself, his raw sobbing muffled beneath his hands.  After a long moment, he feels a light touch between his shoulder struts.  Prowl is stroking his back, carefully, with a single fingertip.  Rewind stays still, convinced that he’ll scare Prowl off if he lifts his head, but the sobs slow, trailing off into the quiet heaving of his vents.  As soon as they do, Prowl snatches his hand away, and when Rewind does look up, Prowl is standing there with his arms crossed, his expression as stony as ever.  He doesn’t look at Rewind as he intones, “Dismissed.”  
  
They stand beside each other at the funeral, but don’t speak; Rewind catches a glimpse of Prowl’s face afterwards, through the crowd of his friends who have clustered round to comfort him.  He’s the one who gives the eulogy, the one bearing the old-fashioned mark of a _lamentatorem’s_ grief – a set of deep gashes across the face, or in his case, the faceplate; a relic of bygone days rarely seen anymore, except among the oldest Cybertronians – and he’s the one who has to field dozens of well-meaning remarks from everyone he knows.  Prowl slips out unnoticed, alone.  It’s not easy for either of them.  
  
Three days go by before Prowl comms him late one evening.  He’s sorry to intrude… not official business… Rewind probably has a lot of arrangements to make… feel free to ignore this… only… if he has any more footage…?  
  
Rewind is there within the hour, a data slug in one hand and a bottle of highgrade in the other.  
  
They stay up most of the night, watching.  Chromedome happy; Chromedome depressed; Chromedome just pottering around their quarters, doing ordinary things.  Chromedome finally managing to produce that “pfft” sound.  “Little victories, Rewind.”  Prowl smiles at that.  
  
It quickly becomes a ritual.  Rewind comes over almost every night, and they share the couch in Prowl’s quarters and drink, and watch.  And, after a while, talk.  The first time Rewind scoots closer and puts a hand on Prowl’s shoulder, Prowl wrenches away and gives the little mech a glare that almost peels his paint off, but the second time he allows it.  The third and fourth times, he actually leans into it.  The fifth time, he drunkenly tilts his head and kisses Rewind on the mask.  Prowl’s mouth is hot through the still-healing gashes, his kiss pressing their jagged edges against Rewind’s lips until they bite.  
  
It’s only a second, and then Prowl scrambles up, his face burning, and apologises frantically.  Oh Primus, oh,  _Primus,_  he just made out with a  _lamentatorem_!  With  _Chromedome’s lamentatorem_!  And Chromedome’s frame is barely cold, and his last days are being played out in technicolour on the screen right in front of them, and what in the Pit does that make Prowl?  Still begging forgiveness – though it’s not entirely clear whether he’s apologising to the living mech or the dead one – he flees.  (Which causes a moment’s awkwardness later, when he remembers that they were in his quarters to begin with, but by the time he returns, Rewind is blessedly gone.)  
  
The sixth time happens the same as the fifth, complete with panicked apologies… except that this time, Prowl doesn’t leave.  The seventh time, the apologies are cut short when Rewind pulls the larger mech in close, retracts his damaged mask, and starts kissing Prowl back.  After that, there are no apologies.  
  
Building a life together is painful and achingly slow.  Even after they start sharing a berth, Rewind still catches himself watching Prowl gaze out the window, a mug of hot energon forgotten in his hand; still wonders whether he’s thinking about Chromedome.  Wonders whether it’s Chromedome he sees in Rewind’s mask, or hears in his voice.  But year by year, the memory of those vivid yellow optics starts to fade, for both of them.  One day, Prowl is even able to remark without bitterness that Chromedome would be happy that his death brought the two of them together.  
  
Rewind knew it would, of course.  It’s why he poisoned Chromedome’s energon, after all.  
  
There’s a memory buried deep, a memory Chromedome never saw when he was in Rewind’s mind.  Iacon police station, before the war:  Dominus Ambus and his followers have been arrested after a protest.  The cells are being patrolled by two young beat cops.  The one with the orange plating barely spares them a glance.  “Don’t encourage them,” he cautions his partner.  But the mech in black and white crouches down in front of the cell, and  _Primus_ , but he’s beautiful.  Big, serious blue optics, sensitive mouth, exquisite lines… and so hungry to understand.  He asks about their platform.  The other protestors shoot him distrustful glances, but Rewind steps forward to explain.  The cop listens to him intently, asks intelligent questions, and even favours Rewind with a small smile and a whispered, “Good luck,” when his colleagues arrive to take the protestors to trial.  Rewind can’t get that smile out of his head… but he realises, from the way the cop looks at his partner, that he’s already got someone.  Even if that someone doesn’t realise his partner’s devotion yet.  
  
Rewind never forgets.  Anything.  So, millions of years on, he’s startled to run into one of the cops from the holding cells.  It’s the wrong one, but no matter.  Rewind listens to the mech’s story of his partner’s betrayal, and of the strange contact – angry and strained, but never breaking – that still exists between them.  And he comes up with a plan.  
  
Because, you see, Rewind understands how history works.  How people and events revolve around certain points of influence.  And he’s playing a very long game.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**   (This section assumes that Rewind and Chromedome are together, and Rewind and Prowl are sleeping together with Chromedome’s permission.)  
  
Is anybody remotely surprised that voyeurism is Rewind’s thing?  No?   Prowl flatly refuses to let him tape their encounters, but he does occasionally agree to watch porn with Rewind.  Rewind’s porn tends to be of the documentary variety, and there have been a few moments where Prowl has actually dropped his popcorn in shock.  “I didn’t know Sentinel Prime did  _that_!… I didn’t know Sentinel Prime physically  _could_ do that!  Rewind, where did you even get that footage?”  “Ohhhh, well, heh, that’s a long *cough* and possibly not technically legal *cough* story hey do you wanna try that move ourselves?”  “…  _Yes_.”  
  
Prowl is also persuaded, eventually, to self-service so that Rewind can watch, but only after he’s absolutely convinced that the camera is off.  And detached.  And in another room.  Preferably locked in a lead-lined box.  Rewind pouts, but Prowl doesn’t even want to contemplate what Prime would say if porn of his second-in-command ever got out.  He has to admit that it’s enjoyable to be watched and appreciated, though.  For most of Prowl’s existence, he’s been regarded as nothing more than an advanced battle computer residing inside a weapon.  To have Rewind’s optics on him like this is a vivid reminder that his body can feel and give pleasure, as well, and there’s a certain relief in that.  It helps ground him.  
  
Some kinks don’t seem like they’d be compatible:  Rewind’s a natural dom, while Prowl’s a switch who only every feels comfortable subbing for a very, very small group of people he absolutely trusts, and Rewind isn’t on that list (at first).  But it turns out that tussling for dominance in bed – physically and verbally – turns them both on.  Prowl usually wins, but Rewind is clever and resourceful enough to have pinned him a few times.  (And really, in these situations, _everybody_ wins. ;))  
  
When Prowl finally does decide to let Rewind tie him up, Rewind is so very attentive and careful, stroking over every inch of Prowl’s plating, murmuring compliments and filthy promises in his audials.  He knows that Prowl doesn’t trust many people with this, and wants to make it as good for him as possible.  Luckily, Rewind’s been at this a lot longer than Prowl has, and he’s had a hell of a lot of practice.  By the end of the night, Prowl is kicking himself that they didn’t do this ages ago.  
  
“Threesome with Chromedome” is the one kink they both have, but are scared to own up to… that is, until Chromedome brings up the idea himself, and both Rewind and Prowl jump on it eagerly.  They end up in a heated, but playful, competition to see who can make Chromedome overload first.  Once Chromedome’s head clears after that first overload, though, he looks up to see Rewind and Prowl languidly making out.  There’s a genuine affection in the way Rewind’s hands run over his shoulders, and Prowl’s fingers trail across Rewind’s waist, and for a moment, Chromedome feels adrift.  His spark tightens in panic, but he talks himself down:  he’s not going to lose them to each other.  They’ve already more than proven that.  And isn’t this so much better than lonely Prowl and jealous Rewind?  
  
Besides, they are  _awfully_ pretty like that, he thinks, and settles in to watch.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   (Takes place while Rewind and Chromedome are together.)  
  
Prowl really should have known better than to try to sneak onto the _Lost Light_ to say goodbye to Chromedome.  There are all sorts of reasons why it was a bad idea, but really, none is more compelling than Red Alert’s numerous booby traps, one of which currently has him hanging upside-down from the ceiling, trussed up like a tin-foil turkey, with his head dangling at the perfect height to watch Rewind round the corner.  
  
“Get lost looking for your office, Prowl?”  
  
“Ha.”  Prowl is rotating lazily; he shutters his optics, the motion making him dizzy.  “Find Red and tell him to let me down from this ridiculous position.”  When he doesn’t hear Rewind running off to comply, Prowl onlines his vision again.  “ _Now._   Or do you  _want_ me accompanying you from here to… to  _Cyberutopia?_ ”  
  
“Slag no.  Nobody wants that.  I’m just getting the best angle for the opening shot of my new documentary.  ‘The Autobot High Command:  Your Leaders Hard At Work’!  Think it’ll be a hit?”  
  
“You.  Would.  Not.  Dare.”  
  
Rewind saunters closer, slides back his mask, and grins at Prowl before leaning in to give him a loud, taunting smack on the cheek.  “Watch me.”  He immediately regrets it, because Prowl  _literally_ snaps at him, clicking his dentae together scant inches from Rewind’s helm as the minibot jerks back in shock.  
Prowl’s optics are blazing.  “Untie me,” he growls,  _“… or do that again like you mean it.”_  
  
So Rewind does.  
  
When Chromedome and Brainstorm find them, Prowl is still dangling, but he doesn’t seem very bothered by his predicament, given how enthusiastically he’s working his glossa inside Rewind’s mouth.  Chromedome blinks while his processor cycles through dozens upon dozens of emotions, ending up somewhere around “horrified arousal”.  Brainstorm, meanwhile, watches the whole process thoughtfully.  When, shortly afterwards, he takes up designing weapons whilst hanging upside-down from the ceiling “just in case Perceptor drops by”, Chromedome is pretty sure he knows what Brainstorm is picturing – and where he got the idea.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   I’ve already talked about my headcanon for Prowl’s childhood home (if you can call it that).  Prowl eventually gives in to Rewind’s nagging, and agrees  to show him where he grew up, although he rolls his optics at Rewind’s insistence that Prowl’s life history is Of Historic Importance, and Should Be Documented.  
  
“I don’t think you’ll want to,” is his only response.  
  
Rewind doesn’t get the same spiel Chromedome did when Prowl took  _him_ home all those years ago, about the thousand and one bylaws and regulations of Prowl’s hometown.  The war is in full swing at this point, and the local government that once enforced such strict rules has long since fallen apart.  So has most of the town, in fact.  Prowl gives Rewind a brief tour, pointing out the recreation field; the bombed-out town hall; what used to be the Neo-Primalist temple.  He only lingers over the shell of the old library, where tiny!Prowl used to spend all the hours between school and curfew, happily lost in the stacks.  Rewind avidly films all of it.  
  
And then they pass by the site of the orphanage, and to Prowl’s shock, it’s still standing.  The same ancient mech who ran the place when he was a child answers the door to them. He blinks up through clouded optics, frowning as if trying to place them; then he rocks back on his heels.  “Oh, it’s  _you._ ”  His voice is like razor blades.  
  
“May we come in?” Prowl asks.  
  
The old mech turns, waving for them to follow him, and leads them into a sitting room that’s threadbare but scrupulously clean.  “I haven’t any proper energon to offer you, I’m afraid.  We’re reduced to low-grade rations out here.  I’m sure that’s not what you’re used to in _Iacon._ ”  
  
“Everyone’s on the same rations,” Prowl says quietly.  “And it’s all right, you don’t have to –” He’s cut off by the loud clink of a cube being set in front of him, the contents a dull, murky purple.  Prowl picks it up and sips politely.  “I want you to meet my partner.  This is Rewind.”  
  
“What, another one?  My, my, Prowl.  You’d think that big, impressive new job of yours wouldn’t leave you with quite so much time to spread your legs for every mech who saunters by.”  
  
Prowl’s jaw tightens and his doorwings twitch, but he says nothing.  And that, in itself, is deeply unnerving to Rewind.  
  
“Autobot second-in-command, eh?” the mech continues.  “Oh, we hear the news, even  _all the way out here_.  And when we heard that our little  _genius_  had gone and joined one of the gangs of thugs tearing this planet apart – well, I shouldn’t have been surprised, really.  You were always weak, Prowl.  But I didn’t think you’d be so vindictive as to use your thugs to destroy the only home you’ve ever had.”  
  
Prowl’s hand is shaking, just slightly, as he puts his cube back on the table.  “What?”  
  
“Don’t deny it!  You sent them all away!  Your Autobots came to this house, and tried to drag my children out.  I asked them on whose authority they were doing this, and they said it was a direct order from the  _second-in-command_ of the Autobot army.”  
  
“The whole town was evacuated.”  The words are ground out painfully.  “The Decepticons were carpet-bombing the area; I had to get you all to safety.  Are you telling me that you  _stayed_?”  
  
“You’re damned right I stayed!”  The elderly mech is on his feet.  “Because some things are worth fighting for!  Our community, our _values_ , matter to me, even if they never did to you.  And do you know what?”  He points at Prowl triumphantly.  “More than half of them stayed with me, too!  Fifty-three fine young mecha refused to leave with your goons.  They said they’d rather die defending their home than run away.  Unlike  _some_.”  He sits down smugly, eyeing Prowl over the lip of his energon cube, watching his words sink in.  
  
Prowl barely hears the insult.  “You… you kept them here.  The entire might of Starscream’s aerial forces closing in, and you kept those  _children_ here?  And –”  He looks around, as if taking in the too-quiet house for the first time.  “They’re all dead, aren’t they.”  
  
“They died like heroes.  The ones who stayed.  The others, the little ones – Primus alone knows.  Where did you send them?  Some detention centre?  Not a one of them ever came back here, even after the war moved on.  Did you even bother to find out what became of them?”  
  
Prowl is folded in on himself, his doorwings curled as if he’s trying to hide within them.  Rewind can scarcely believe it, but it actually looks like he’s trying not to cry.  
  
That’s when Rewind mercifully shuts off his camera.  But what he does next, no one expected – not even Rewind.  
  
“Hey!”  Both of them look up, startled.  Rewind stands up on his chair to face down the elderly mech.  “You leave him the frag alone,” he growls.  “He didn’t kill those kids.  The ’Cons did.   _You_ did.  Prowl was just trying to do what he always does, and that’s  _save people_.  And if you can’t see that, you’re a worthless slag-stain who deserves to rust in his big, empty house.  Come on, Prowl.”  
  
It turns out to be the last time Prowl ever visits what’s left of the town where he was raised; the next wave of attacks reduces the place to ashes.  Prowl has mixed feelings about that, but he’ll always cherish the memory of leaving that place for good, with his head held high and his hand holding Rewind’s.  
  
Rewind is quite a bit older than Prowl, and his parents passed away long ago – possibly one reason he’s been so obsessed with finding Dominus Ambus.*  He’s Rewind’s last real link to his distant past.  Rewind has never minded talking about his parents, quoting Mom here or relating one of Dad’s jokes there, but after that visit to the orphanage, he gets a bit cagey talking about them in front of Prowl.  It makes him sad, though.  He doesn’t want to be insensitive, but he _does_ want to share that part of his life with his partner.  
  
So, one night, he asks if Prowl wants to “meet” his parents.  
  
Rewind was forged with that camera attached to his helm, meaning that he has footage of virtually his entire life tucked away in his archives (more from when he was a sparkling, in fact, because he hadn’t figured out how to turn the camera off yet).  He sifts through it all, and puts together a highlight reel of his parents as he most likes to remember them:  warm, goofy, fiercely loving.  He and Prowl curl up together and watch in silence, both staring at the screen with something akin to hunger.  Prowl murmurs something afterwards about wishing he could have known them, but it’s unnecessary; they both feel the same ache.  They fall asleep together on the sofa, Rewind sprawled across Prowl’s legs, holding onto each other protectively.  
  
Prowl  _does_ get the chance to meet Rewind’s brother Eject, when Eject is temporarily assigned to HQ.  Prowl knew they were twins, but he didn’t expect Eject to be so startlingly similar to Rewind in temperament, as well as in looks.  Staring at the brothers as they throw their arms around each other excitedly, Prowl feels like he’s in the middle of either a  _very_ kinky dream or a hideously specific nightmare.  He settles on the latter as soon as Eject starts talking about football.   
  
Eject takes Prowl aside to give him the if-you-ever-hurt-my-brother-I’ll-kill-you speech, even if he does have to yank Prowl down by a doorwing in order to deliver it.  And honestly?  Prowl believes him.  
  
* Incidentally, Prowl’s been drafted into The Great Ambus Hunt.  He’s never agreed in so many words, but he set up filters to comb through the daily reports he receives and highlight any possible image or mention of Dominus.  Then he examines the results at the end of the day, culls out any usable information, and leaves it on Rewind’s desk.  Granted, even their combined powers have yet to turn up a solid lead, but it beats watching hours of snuff films in desperation.  
  
Without saying anything, Prowl also makes sure he’s nearby when Rewind  _does_ watch the snuff films, just in case Rewind needs a hug afterwards.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   It’s only supposed to be temporary.  Rewind got some footage of a top-secret Decepticon facility that allowed the Autobots to destroy it, and now he has a pack of ’Con-aligned bounty hunters out for his blood, led by the infamous Lockdown.  The remote outpost where he was stationed isn’t nearly secure enough; hell, at the height of the war, Overlord managed to breach the defences of the New Institute itself.  Very, very few places on Cybertron are immune to Decepticon attack.  
  
The Autobot second-in-command’s quarters are one such place.  Shielded against sensors, not appearing on any maps – there isn’t a more secure set of rooms on the planet.  Hell, not even  _Prime’s_ quarters are this well protected.  Rewind has about a thousand questions regarding this, but after a moment’s thought, he decides he really doesn’t want to know.  
  
Prowl is coolly gracious when he makes the offer:  he clearly isn’t nuts about the idea of Rewind sharing his quarters, but he sees the logic of it.  He even manages to procure some minibot-sized furniture – a chair and desk, as well as a bed – and has a few shelves installed within Rewind’s reach.  Rewind happily fills them with data disks and a few mementos of his travels.  He feels like Prowl’s Spartan bedroom needs a little brightening up.  
  
All things considered, the arrangement goes pretty well… for a few days.  Prowl is rarely home, anyway, and when he is, they work quietly across the room from one another.  It’s strangely companionable.  But Rewind starts to chafe at the silence.  Any attempt to put on music or a film in the background while the work gets a testy,  _“Rewind…”_ and an irritated flutter of the doorwings, and the one time Prowl catches him hosting movie night for the other Autobots in “their” quarters – well, let’s just say that Rewind really should have consulted his roommate about that first.  Especially considering the amount of top-secret material stored in Prowl’s rooms.  A lot of good tables perish in the ensuing argument.  
  
Their eventual compromise is that both of them spend as little time in the room as possible.  In his off  hours, Rewind busies himself exploring HQ and befriending its staff, eventually starting to interview them for a documentary he’s putting together.  Prowl vanishes further into his work.  Rewind thinks that he’s simply coming back after Rewind goes into recharge and leaving before he wakes in the morning, but one night, when Rewind reels home late from a party Blaster and Jazz were hosting, he realises that Prowl’s berth hasn’t been slept in at all.  The next morning, Prowl opens the door to his office, stifling a yawn, and finds Rewind standing there with two energon rations.  Prowl blinks, then silently takes one of them and beckons Rewind inside.  
  
They don’t actually talk about the living situation, but after that, Prowl does start recharging at home again, and the next morning, Rewind finds his own ration on the table next to his bed when he wakes.  They fall into the habit of fetching energon for each other, even on days when they don’t actually lay optics on one another (which is common).  And on one of the rare mornings where Rewind is up early enough to let them take their rations together, they discuss Rewind’s film… and before Rewind knows it, Prowl has arranged a premiere screening for the entire base.  A morale booster, he calls it.  And… well, if Rewind  _wants_ … maybe this could even become a monthly event.  Movie night.  
  
As long as it’s  _never, ever held within 500 feet of Prowl’s quarters ever again.  
  
_
  * **A crossover of my choice:**   Human AU, crossover with  _Les Miserables._ Rewind is a member of France’s underclass – the “disposable class” known as  _les miserables,_ or “the wretched”.  But despite his poverty and the bigotry he faces, Rewind has taught himself to read, and he has a voracious appetite for information.  When a pamphlet encouraging the working classes to rise up against their oppressors makes its way into his hands, Rewind is inspired, and ends up falling in with a revolutionary student society, _Les Amis de l’ABC._ His role is to gather accounts of government and police abuses to be published in the radical newssheets.  Rewind is naturally talented at charming, bullshitting, or flat-out sneaking his way in where he’s not supposed to be, and the information he uncovers is political dynamite – so much so that the police, in an effort to defuse a potential uprising, send Prowl, an idealistic and uncompromising young officer, undercover as a student revolutionary.  
  
Prowl’s primary objective is to identify and gather evidence against those advocating open rebellion, but he becomes obsessed with catching Rewind in particular – and Rewind always seems to be two steps ahead of him.  But is Prowl fixated on the young anti-government spy because he believes Rewind is hurting the state… or because he’s afraid Rewind might actually have a point?  Or could there be another reason entirely why the thought of Rewind is keeping Prowl up at night? ;)  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Meet Rewind, one of the best spies the Autobots have ever had.  He trained alongside the likes of Mirage and Tracks under Jazz’s tutelage, until Prime’s second-in-command himself poached him for a new team – a team of black ops agents operating beyond the law.  A team that, as far as the official records are concerned, does not exist.  
  
Prowl is impressed with the bright, fearless little mech, but does his best not to show it, keeping his expression stony as he issues Rewind with his first set of orders.  “And I will personally be your handler for this mission, so that I can see what you’re capable of.  Is that understood?”  
  
“You got it, Boss!”  Rewind shutters one side of his visor in a wink, and salutes.  
  
On the fourth day of the mission, he drops out of contact, and Prowl resigns himself to the worst.  He’s lost operatives before, and he understands that it’s the cost of war.  It’s a shame, though.  The new recruit had such promise.  
  
Three days later, Rewind blows into spacedock, riding a captured Decepticon warship with half a dozen high-ranking ’Con officers chained up in the hold.  Prowl is gobsmacked… for all of about two seconds.  Then his optics narrow thoughtfully.  
  
Oh,  _this_ he can use.  
  
From then on, Rewind gets the most dangerous missions, the infiltrations that everyone said weren’t even possible.  Prowl continues to be his personal handler:  it’s something he doesn’t do for any of his other agents, preferring to maintain a deniable distance, but he and Rewind work particularly well together.  Rewind appreciates having Prowl’s calm voice in his ear, providing tactical advice, and Prowl trusts Rewind to disregard that advice when he needs to.  Rewind becomes his right hand, able to strike far deeper into enemy territory than Prowl himself could ever go.  
  
Rewind frequently ends mission debriefings by sprawling against Prowl’s desk and suggestively inviting him to his quarters for a drink to celebrate their success.  Prowl is never quite sure whether to take the flirting seriously – Rewind has a habit of charming  _everyone_  – but he always declines.  It isn’t that he isn’t tempted; it’s that their closeness is already pushing the boundaries of professionalism, and Prowl is all too aware of the danger of falling for his favourite operative.  
  
But he almost wishes he’d taken Rewind up on his offer, the day that Rewind returns from  _that_ mission.  
  
It was almost certainly a suicide run, and they both knew it – but Rewind has pulled off impossible feats before, and he begged Prowl for the chance to try.  This time, though, something goes badly wrong.  Rewind manages to get himself captured.  In desperation, he turns to every operative’s last resort:  he activates memory erasure.  
  
And it fails.  
  
Or rather, for some reason (whether it’s Rewind’s hyper-retentive memory banks or something else), it doesn’t take completely.  Rewind’s memories of his mission are eroded, sufficiently damaged that they’re virtually impossible to read, but they aren’t  _gone_.  And when his enraged Decepticon captors start rooting around in his head more roughly to try and extract what they want, they end setting off a chain reaction, devastating Rewind’s memory core and corrupting every memory related to his work.  By the time Rewind is rescued and returned to headquarters, he’s in physical and mental agony, his body scarred by torture and his mind a wreck of maddening, half-decayed shadow memories he can’t connect, no matter how hard he tries.  
  
Prowl sends a panicked message to the New Institute, and Chromedome arrives to try and put Rewind’s shattered mind back together.  After hours, however, he looks up at Prowl and shakes his head sadly.  “I’m sorry.  His memories are too badly damaged.  Only solutions is to cut out what’s beyond saving, and that means taking everything that has to do with his past missions, or the rest of the team, or…”  
  
“Or me.”  Prowl crouches down and holds out his hand.  Something deep within Rewind’s visor flickers, and he wordlessly reaches over to clutch Prowl’s hand in his own.  His brow is furrowed deeply, his optics bright, as if he’s trying desperately to pinpoint something just beyond his grasp.  
  
“Do it,” Prowl whispers, and Chromedome bows his head as his needles slide in.  
  
Prowl doesn’t stick around; he doesn’t want to see the blank lack of recognition when Rewind onlines his visor again.  He’ll reroute Rewind to some obscure corner of the Autobot army; bury him deep in some dull position, like data archivist.  It’ll be a waste of his talents, but at least it should keep him safe from any Decepticons out for revenge.  Before he goes, he leans his helm against Chromedome’s, just for a moment, and murmurs, “Take care of him for me, Tumbler,  _please._ ”  
  
And that’s how Chromedome and Rewind really met.  
 
  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  Well, I feel like this one deserves a shot after all of the  _whoops I accidentally a threesome_ in the answers above:  No Chromedome.  Not in Prowl’s past or in Rewind’s present.  What would happen if Prowl and Rewind met on their own  
  
Prowl has just led a unit of Autobots to break down the door of the illegal relinquishment clinic when he hears a wail.  Peering through an open doorway, he sees a tiny bot, crouched alone in a room of corpses.  
  
Prowl knows he should arrest him on suspicion of being part of the operation, but the anguish in that wail suggests otherwise – this must be some loved one left behind by the clinic’s “mercy”.  So, instead, he lowers his blaster (but doesn’t holster it; he’s not  _stupid_ ), and walks up behind the mech.  
  
“Death doesn’t get easier, really,” he says softly.  “We just get more used to it.”  
  
The bot spins around, his optics wide and damp.  “Who are you?”  
  
“My designation is Prowl.”  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, he answers, “To… help.  If I can.”  
  
The Autobots give Rewind a lift to the nearest spaceport, and he talks to Prowl the entire way, telling him about Dominus Ambus – their work together, Ambus’s disappearance, and the fact that Rewind wasn’t mourning for a friend he’d found in the clinic, but for a friend he  _hadn’t_ found.  Prowl consents to do what he can with his own resources to track Ambus down, although he warns Rewind that it may not be enough.  
  
Just to remind the Autobot second-in-command of his promise, Rewind shows up at HQ a week later, asking for an update.  Prowl is run ragged, but he takes a few minutes to sit down and bring Rewind up to speed.  The next week, Rewind is back, and the same thing happens… and the next.  Each time, even though there’s still nothing to report, the visits begin to last longer.  Rewind’s curiosity and enthusiasm are like a tonic to Prowl, who’s begun to see the world only in the washed-out greys of the war.  And Rewind finds himself taking a liking to the stern officer who turns out to have a sly sense of humour underneath, if you catch him in the right mood.  
  
Prowl isn’t prey to nightmares, but he has his own demons – demons that stay a little bit further away when Rewind is around.  Rewind’s presence softens him, reminds him not to lose sight of the _people_ involved in this war.  In another universe, Rewind saved Chromedome’s life.  Here, he saves Prowl’s soul.  
  
Shame, really, that it costs the Autobots the war.




	17. Megatron and Optimus Prime (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request on Tumblr. Warnings: Darkfic contains graphic violence and death. Other sections have (not very graphic) battle scenes, BDSM, and a lot of consensual rough sex.

  * **Fake dating:** It would be so much easier, of course, if they could just  _explain_ the common threat to their respective armies and tell them they’ve decided to work together – but both leaders agree that it’s too dangerous.  The fewer mecha who know the details, the better their chances of preventing their plans being leaked.  So now they just need to come up with a plausible reason why the ’Bots and ’Cons aren’t shooting at each other for the moment, and why their leaders need to spend so much time locked in a room alone together…  
  
It’s Megatron’s idea, actually.  Optimus stares at him wide-opticked, and says flatly, “You  _can’t_  be serious.  Even compared to that giant purple griffin, this is insane.”  
  
“Entirely reasonable, I’d say.  Unless you can think of another tactic that would solve our problem this neatly?”  Megatron draws closer, and favours Optimus with a smirk.  “Why, Prime… you aren’t intimidated by the idea, are you?”  Optimus rolls his optics at the blatant goading, which is beneath his notice (he tells himself sternly), but has to concede the point.  
  
There’s no mock schmoopiness here:  when the commanders of the two mightiest armies Cybertron has ever seen court each other, they do it like kings.  Optimus brings his “beloved” lavish gifts of fuel, and presents him with ancient volumes on strategy from the meagre shelf of books he brought with him from Cybertron.  Megatron arranges a military inspection for his new consort, and throws a roughly affectionate arm around Optimus’s shoulders to lead him down the line of gleaming Decepticon troops.  They start taking their meals together, and their discussions of Cybertronian history, which began as a way to make their enforced togetherness less dull, actually come to fascinate both of them.  They sit up late into the night, debating the finer points of strategy and philosophy.  Each of them still finds the other’s worldview fundamentally alien, but now that they actually have the leisure to do so, they find themselves exploring those differences instead of recoiling from them.  (Of course, both of them are carefully noting down anything revealed about the other’s ideas on tactics.  This peace isn’t going to last forever, and they accept that.)  
  
Megatron simply presents his new relationship to his troops as a  _fait accompli._ Starscream takes it the worst.  He spends hours screeching at Megatron:  “No one replaces me!” and, “Why wasn’t I enough for you?” and, “Once you’ve taken all that broken-down truck has to offer, you’ll come  _crawling_ back to me!”  After that, he can be found ostentatiously preening in Megatron’s path whenever the commander is walking with his new love, and pouts and smirks while Megatron steadfastly ignores him.  Starscream even starts finding excuses to burst in on Optimus and Megatron whenever they’re alone together, which requires the two leaders to scramble to get _into_ a compromising position so that they can immediately scramble to get  _out_ of it.  Optimus isn’t sure whether Starscream is sincerely jealous, or whether he’s in on the plan and playing his part to the hilt.  Actually, it’s Option #3:  Megatron never told Starscream what he was doing, but Starscream figured it out and is  _epically trolling_ them both.   
  
Soundwave has undoubtedly also figured out what’s going on:  he doesn’t use his telepathy invasively on his leader, but even his ability to passively pick up the emotions others broadcast should have given it away (Optimus Prime is not a comfortable liar).  It still doesn’t stop him from gazing around corners at Megatron with a devastated expression in his visor.  
  
Optimus is, naturally, much more democratic in his approach to his own troops.  He sits them down and, entwining his fingers with Megatron’s, explains patiently that love cannot always be predicted or controlled, and that he hopes they will find it in their sparks to accept his decision.  Megatron beams at the assembled Autobots, grabs Optimus, and dips him for a passionate kiss.  Amid the gasps and the outraged muttering, someone whistles appreciatively from the back, but shuts up in a hurry when Ironhide glares around the room.  
  
Prowl figures it out in pretty short order, too, and discreetly lets Optimus know that he’s onto them.  “I should have known we wouldn’t fool you,” Optimus says ruefully.  
  
“With all due respect, Prime, it would have been a lot worse for you if I’d believed you.  You are aware that a second-in-command can act to have his commander removed from power if that commander is deemed to have gone insane, correct?”  Ice-blue optics cut sidelong to meet Optimus’s, and Prowl adds a belated, “Sir?”  
  
That’s the most uncomfortable moment Optimus has during the whole ordeal –  
  
– until Starscream decides if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, and suggests a threesome.  
  
And the look on Megatron’s face says he’s seriously considering it…  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   Let’s face it – Megatron is in deep slag here.  If there’s one thing the episode “A Prime Problem” established, it’s that he’s not very good at pretending to be Optimus.  This Megatron has always been a battlefield commander, first and foremost; he can be persuasive and eloquent, yes, but he has no experience playing politics, or pretending to be something he’s not over the long term.  On top of that, he could never be bothered to keep the Autobot grunts straight.  The officers, yes, but who cares what all the minibots are called?  What kind of army  _has_ this many Primus-damned minibots, anyway?  And don’t even get him started on the humans…  Most of all, though, it’s his attitude that gives him away.  He tries to mimic Prime’s sentimentality as best he can, but some of the decisions that Optimus would have made are so bizarre to Megatron’s way of thinking that they don’t even occur to him.  He’s the commander, so his being able to function is a tactical necessity; if he’s wounded, then, why on  _Cybertron_ would he try to insist that others be treated first?  He knows that Optimus doesn’t keep his troops as disciplined as the Decepticons are, but how could any leader allow outright insubordination without some form of punishment?  Surely even Optimus wouldn’t let his officers openly question his orders?  
  
All of this starts to raise eyebrows, so Megatron knows he needs to work fast.  Autobots are trusting by nature, which will buy him some time, but they aren’t  _stupid_.  His top priority is hacking into Teletraan-1, but he also sneaks around at night leaving a few little surprises for the ’Bots:  bugs, slow-release toxins, remote-controlled explosives.  Each additional one adds to the risk of getting caught, but also increases the chances that the Autobots won’t be able to find them all in time.  
  
Optimus isn’t faring much better as Megatron, although his troops’ fear of him is working in his favour.  It’s not healthy for Decepticons to point out when their leader is in an odd mood, or question uncharacteristic orders.  (Optimus does take the precaution of sending Soundwave on a very long, distant reconnaissance mission – a telepath in his vicinity is an incredibly bad idea right now.)  So, while Optimus works on gathering information, he gets away with being unusually kind and solicitous towards the lower-ranking Decepticons.  He praises their efforts, breaks up fights by telling the combatants to go to separate corners and stay there until they can each list three things they like about the other, and ends up sitting with Breakdown for two hours, talking the young Stunticon through his fears.  (Harder than it sounds, since one of Breakdown’s top fears is “Megatron being this close to me”, but they manage to work past it.)  When “Megatron” finds out about Swindle’s weekly Praxus Fold ’Em game… and suggests they make it an official team-building social event (with a very low limit on bets, to Swindle’s dismay), some of the ’Cons start to suspect something’s up.  The next day, Optimus makes the mistake of ordering that their Insecticon allies deserve to be paid far more generously than they are, and every officer on the  _Nemesis_ immediately leaps to the obvious conclusion:  Megatron has been cerebro-shelled by Bombshell!  Weirdly enough, it’s Starscream who intervenes, telling them all that they’re being stupid, and Megatron is clearly just worn down by the pressures of command.  Saying that their leader needs his rest, he drags Optimus off to Megatron’s quarters… and locks the door.  
  
When Starscream saunters towards him and starts running his hands over Megatron’s cannon, purring how badly he wants to be taken by his master, Optimus’s engines stall – and Starscream bursts into giggles.  “The look on your face!” he crows.  “Nice try, _Optimus Prime_.”  
  
“What are you going to do with me?”  
  
“Do?  Why, nothing!  ‘Lord Megatron’is going to continue to rule over the Decepticons, and your secret is safe with me… just so long as you always do  _exactly as I say._ ”  Stretching up on his toes, he whispers in Optimus’s audial, “Fail, and I call Soundwave back here to have you exposed and locked up.  Either way, I get what  _I_  want, but I think you’ll find that the first deal is considerably better for you.”  He runs the tip of his glossa down Optimus’s jaw, making him shiver.  “There are other perks, as well.  I’ve always wanted to be fragged by a Prime…”  
  
Optimus is saved from having to make the choice by an urgent summons from the command centre.  “Optimus Prime” is approaching the base, broadcasting a request to parlay on an open channel.  What are Megatron’s orders?  
  
“Take him prisoner and have him brought to the control room,” Optimus growls.  “I shall meet you there.”  He glances at Starscream, who nods approvingly, and they leave together.  
  
Optimus is shocked to see himself, standing there shackled, his plating scored by half a dozen energy blasts, but still looking defiant.  As soon as their optics lock, Megatron in Optimus’s body straightens up.  “I am the true Megatron,” he declares, “and this is Optimus Prime, who stole my frame!”  
  
Starscream laughs derisively, but some of the other Decepticons start to mutter; it  _would_ make sense.  Everyone is looking at Optimus.  If he denies it, he’ll be under Starscream’s thrall, while admitting the truth would mean they could find a way to get the switch reversed… leaving Optimus, in his own body, a prisoner in the Decepticon base.  All of this goes through his mind in a nanoklik.  
  
Then he lifts Megatron’s gun to his own temple.  “He’s telling the truth.  Now take us to neutral ground so that we can reverse this, or Megatron won’t  _have_ a body to come back to.”  
  
With the combined talents of Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor, Starscream (reluctant as he is), and the Constructicons, they pull off the switch, and the two armies slowly back away from each other, weapons primed.  Just before he flies off, Megatron calls to Optimus, “I would sooner be offline than live as you, Optimus Prime… but there  _are_ certain advantages.”  He grins, leaving Optimus extremely concerned.  
  
When he gets back to the  _Ark,_ Optimus gets the full story on how Megatron was caught.  Apparently, one of the other things the Decepticon leader couldn’t quite wrap his head around was, if you have a pretty, consenting second-in-command, why wouldn’t you indulge?  So he assumed that Optimus  _must_ be fragging Prowl, and propositioned him to maintain the deception.  Prowl was startled, but not at all unwilling; it wasn’t until “Optimus” started talking as if they’d done this many times before that Prowl got suspicious.  Cue an attempt to restrain his commander that ended with Megatron fighting his way out of the base.  
  
Prowl won’t clarify how far along things got between him and Megatron before he figured it out, but he also won’t meet Optimus’s optics for weeks.  
  
(Incidentally, Red Alert does find all of the bombs, but a couple of the toxins give the ’Bots no end of trouble, and one of the wires sits undetected for months.)  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Well, if by “sex pollen” you mean “Wheeljack made an extremely dubious invention that backfired all over the battlefield”.  Megatron is going to strangle him when he catches him, while Optimus is… probably going to give him a very stern talking-to.  With the big, sad, guilt-inducing optics.  Wheeljack thinks he’d prefer to be strangled.  
  
For the moment, though, the two commanders are otherwise occupied.  
  
Optimus’s hands are on Megatron’s shoulders, pushing him into the dirt, tearing at the plating, even as Megatron’s fingers torment his sensitive grill, and Megatron’s legs wrap around his.  The Prime’s mask is retracted, and with a low moan, he suckles and bites at Megatron’s collar.  Megatron throws back his head and lets out a roar.  Their bodies are in constant motion, bucking and sliding against each other; Megatron kicks, flipping Optimus over almost lazily, and then the two of them close again, ripping at each other with fingers and teeth.  When Optimus kisses Megatron, he can taste his own spilled energon in his enemy’s mouth, and it only makes his engines run hotter.  They know each other’s bodies so intimately already – where the pressure points are, where the armour is weak – and as new as this is, there is something intensely familiar about it:  the noise and weight of their bodies crashing together, the desperate grappling for the upper hand, the smell and taste of each other’s fuel.  Looking down and seeing the bared dentae, or the hungry flare in a set of optics:   _Yes.  More.  Is that the worst you can do?  Come on!_  
  
They’re both too frantic and too high on the pollen and the combat to draw it out for long; they overload rutting against each other in the dust, with both armies staring.  The artificially heightened surge knocks them both into stasis long enough for their soldiers to disentangle them and get them away.  Optimus wakes up hideously embarrassed the next morning.  Megatron, by contrast, feels particularly smug, which only increases when he strolls into the morning briefing and every single officer’s cooling fans kick on.  
  
Reflector makes enough credits selling pictures that once the war ends, he (they?) will never have to worry about retirement.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   When he and Optimus fight – on the battlefield or in the berth – they are the only two living things in the universe.  
  
Megatron feels  _alive_ during those fights, but in a war where centuries of planning and manipulation can go into a single battle, combat is rare, and one-on-one combat between commanders is rarer still.  As for instances when both commanders can sneak discreetly away, and find a private space somewhere to frag each other senseless, those are  _vanishingly_ rare.  Between times, Megatron needs some kind of fix to tide him over.  Soundwave and Shockwave are too loyal to treat him with anything but the utmost delicacy.  He could probably order them to make it a challenge, to make it hurt, but they’d tremble and hesitate and hate every minute of it.  It’s not something he could entrust to one of the rank and file, and Starscream – well, Starscream is Starscream.  A worthy opponent in both types of combat, but never to be treated as a replacement for another.  The Air Commander would probably throw a fit if he thought for a second that was what Megatron considered him.  
  
When they manage to develop the cloning machine, however… hmmm.  
  
It’s not much good for infiltration (as they’ve proven) or even combat, as each clone needs to be controlled by a living mech, therefore removing one soldier from the battlefield for every clone added to it.  But for this, yes, it just might serve.  Megatron locks the lab door and disables Soundwave’s cameras before pulling up the Optimus Prime blueprints, and turning the machine on.  
  
The clone is little more than a shell, but the shell’s resemblance to Optimus is perfect.  And Megatron can tell it when to fight, when to resist, when to break.  Combined with his own memories, it’s enough.  Afterwards, sated, Megatron is relaxed enough to proceed with greater precision and care.  He really flexes the limits of his inventiveness when he devises the destruction of each clone.  The tortures need to be silent, so that he doesn’t wake the whole base, but that still leaves him with so much scope:  acid, fire, slow dismemberment, hanging the unlucky Prime from the ceiling and slicing a few key energon lines so that he’ll bleed out in drips over the course of the night.  The clones never scream, which is the only imperfection.    
  
Megatron thinks these nights keep him sane.  
  
Centuries later, the war is over, and Megatron is long gone.  Optimus sits in the corner, slowly savouring a cube of high grade and reflecting on the strange nature of memory.  So many of his days now seem to fly past, melting into one another, so that he can barely remember what he did or whom he met with the day before; and yet individual moments from ages past sometimes come back to him so abruptly and vividly that they block out the present.  A pair of red optics burning from across a battlefield.  A voice that he swears he can sometimes hear in empty rooms.  
  
 _I would have waited an eternity for this…_  
  
“You okay, sweetspark?  You look like you’re a million miles away.”  
  
Optimus shakes his head, and smiles.  “Fine.  Thank you.”  
  
“Then let’s fire up our engines, shall we?”  Warm fingers wrap around the back of his neck, and the young mech – no, not that young, they just always  _look_ young to him – slides onto Optimus’s lap.  “What did you have in mind?”  
  
“I have a… very specific request.  One that will require your discretion.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about that, honey.  I never kiss and tell.”  Fingertips slide cheekily over plump lips, miming a – what is it the humans call it? – a zipper.  Strange how Earth culture has taken root here on Cybertron, even among those who have never visited Earth.  “And what you paid me will cover a  _lot_ of specific requests.  What did you have in mind?”  
  
Optimus gazes up earnestly into those pretty optics.  “I need you to be Megatron for me.”  
  
Optimus never knew about the nights Megatron spent cloning and using him, but with an eerie synchronicity, he’s come up with a similar solution.   _Very_ similar.  For you see, Optimus kills them, too.  
  
Oh, he doesn’t mean to.  He never wants to hurt them, these sweet young mechs (they always look so young).With each and every one, he goes in thinking that  _this time,_ he’ll be able to control himself.  But as he loses himself in the fantasy, that potent mix of hate and lust and horror and shame, he starts to give more than they can take.  Megatron’s frame could absorb such punishment and come up fighting, but their supple bodies – adapted for pleasure, not war – are not so strong.  Every time, Optimus breaks down in tears when he realises what he’s done.  
  
And every time, he swears it’s the last time.  
  
Late at night, Prowl sits alone in his spacious office at police HQ, clutching a cooling mug of energon so hard it nearly breaks.  Nine million years ago, he stood in front of this very desk to deliver his resignation.  He left to join the Autobots because he was sick of the corruption and fear.  All he’d ever wanted was to be a good cop, but on the Council’s Cybertron, real justice had become impossible.  To be in charge of protecting the peace and enforcing a law that’s actually fair is everything he dreamed of during those long years of war.  
  
But this new world is still shaky, its peace fragile; it still needs a hero to hold it together.  It still needs Optimus Prime.  
  
So he transmits the orders:  burn this corpse, too.  Mop up the scene.  Make it clear to any witnesses what will happen if they repeat what they saw.  
  
Then he buries his head in his hands, and wonders what they’ve all become.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**   Combat.  Both of them get turned on by fighting, preferably with someone who can take all of their strength, so that they don’t have to hold back.  There’s a certain sadomasochistic streak in both of them (although Megatron leans more to the “sado-” side and Optimus more to the “masochistic”) – they love driving each other to the point where pain only heightens the pleasure, and they share a bloodplay (or, rather, energonplay) kink.  They also relish the feeling of limping home from a fight or a frag battered, energon-stained, scarred, and exhausted, but triumphant.  The only difference between berth and combat in that respect is that the former lets them both be victors.  
  
Megatron is dominant, although that’s less a “secret kink” than it is an “extremely obvious kink” and possibly “job requirement”.  What’s more surprising is that Optimus is secretly quite submissive.  It’s mostly about the release of being able to put aside his command and simply do as he’s told (and be rewarded for it, which is a heady feeling for a hero who constantly feels as though all his heroism isn’t enough).  He knows that Megatron will take him almost to breaking point, but won’t damage him permanently, because Megatron values his toy too highly.  Megatron, in turn, is extremely attentive to Optimus’s pleasure, because simply hurting the Prime isn’t nearly the thrill that (consensually) “forcing” Optimus to overload at his hands can be.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   It may not count, because it wasn’t a kiss between Megatron and Optimus, but between Megatron and Orion Pax.  The young dock worker was already overwhelmed by the visit from his idol, but when Megatron gave him a winning smile and laid a warm hand on his shoulder, Orion couldn’t help spluttering out a confession of his admiration.  Megatron chuckled softly, and trailed his fingers from Orion’s shoulder up to his cheek, then on to trace the contours of Orion’s full mouth.  Orion blushed hard as Megatron leaned in, kissing him almost tenderly.  Orion’s optics drifted offline… and the other Decepticons started slipping through the door into the energon storage facility.  Megatron spared a quick glance to make sure they were all in position.  
  
 _Charming little mech,_ he thought as he killed Orion.  
  
The next time happens thousands of years later, when Optimus has Megatron pinned to the floor – and that hold suddenly turns into a protective sheltering as the building they’re in collapses around them.  As the scream of tearing metal fades and Optimus looks down to see whether Megatron is all right, he realises that his opponent has managed to free his cannon, and it’s pointing directly at Optimus’s spark chamber.  
  
“Too late, Prime.”  Megatron grins wolfishly at him.  “You never did learn when to press your advantage.”  
  
As a last, desperate act, Optimus slides back his mask and, well… presses his advantage.  
  
The kiss is hot, hungry, but not violent; there’s no play for dominance here, only the slow, relishing slide of Optimus’s mouth against Megatron’s.  It only distracts the Decepticon for a moment, but it’s enough – enough for Optimus to throw his weight against the cannon so the shot goes wild, and enough for them to start grappling again.    
  
Looking back later, Optimus would like to believe that’s why he did it:  that it was a tactic, nothing more.  Or even that it was a mute appeal for mercy and truce.  A kiss of peace.  
  
If he’s honest with himself, though, it was neither of those things.  It was payback.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   I’m pretty sure that Optimus has met the Constructicons.  They don’t particularly get on.   On a more serious note, if we do pick this one out of the several contradictory canon explanations and say that the Constructicons built Megatron, I think that Optimus would feel disgust and resentment towards them for that… but also a sneaking bit of admiration.  Megatron is, after all, the quintessential Decepticon.  He embodies the movement.  He’s a work of art that reflects profound credit on the artists, but who has grown far beyond them.  Optimus being Optimus, he would lament that the Constructicons couldn’t have used their powers for good, instead, but he would also feel strange contemplating the idea of a world where Megatron never existed.  It seems… incomplete.  
  
I don’t know whether Megatron knows Alpha Trion personally; I’m sure he’s aware of his existence, but A3 seems pretty skilled at hiding out when he doesn’t want to be found.  If Megatron did come face-to-face with the old bot, he’d undoubtedly try to take him hostage.  A gifted scientist on his side, if A3 cooperates, and at least a little leverage if he doesn’t.  Optimus wouldn’t want anything to  _happen_ to his daddy, now, would he?  
  
Alpha Trion doesn’t cooperate, but he is, in many ways, a model prisoner:  never complains, consumes his rations readily enough, doesn’t provoke the guards, but doesn’t cringe away from them, either.  It helps that Megatron has ordered that he be well looked after.  Megatron respects knowledge, after all, wherever it comes from – and, like Optimus, he can’t help but admire the mind that created his greatest adversary.  
  
So Megatron comes to speak to Alpha Trion sometimes.  At first, it’s to try and persuade him to work for the Decepticons, but A3 is firm in his refusal; however, he does like to talk, and Megatron is hardly going to pass up the opportunity.  They discuss history, and science (Starscream often joins them for those sessions).  The one thing they never talk about, however, is Optimus Prime.  Megatron never asks.  One night, A3 finally brings up the subject himself, wanting to know the reason for Megatron’s silence.  
  
“There’s no point in asking,” Megatron replies.  
  
“Because I would refuse to tell you anything?”  
  
“Because there is nothing you can tell me.  I have fought Optimus for eons.  I know him far better than you do, now, old one.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Alpha Trion asks him, nettled.  “I can tell you one thing you don’t know:  you’ll never defeat him.”  Megatron gazes placidly back at him, and Alpha Trion blurts out, “Have you never wondered why you two are so alike?  Both of you wielding a sheer physical power beyond your size, so evenly matched?”  
  
“Because you created Prime to be my nemesis.  You designed him specifically to match me in every respect.  You…”  Megatron’s speech slows; he hasn’t considered it in quite this light before.  “You modeled him after me?”  
  
“No.  He is not your copy, Megatron.  You are his.”  Alpha Trion extends a slender, aged finger to point at him.  “Long before either of you were created, I was working on the designs for a new type of Cybertronian – an evolution of our warrior caste.  One day, six of my best and brightest pupils disappeared with the blueprints, and brought them to life in you.  But their execution was flawed, even then, and when I recreated the design, I improved it further… until a fatally wounded young worker was brought to my door, and I finally had the chance to use it.  You are the prototype that was never meant to exist, Decepticon.  Optimus Prime is what you were _supposed_  to be.”  
  
Megatron growls that Alpha Trion is no different from the Autobot Council before the war, regarding military builds as nothing but tools or experiments.  All this talk of copies and “supposed to be” doesn’t faze him.   _Lord_ Megatron has never been troubled by where he came from:  he controls his own destiny, and that is what matters.  
  
But the rest of it, the connection to Optimus Prime being closer and stranger than he’d imagined – that stays with him.  That night, his recharge is troubled by visions of himself and Optimus chasing each other through an acid storm, their faces corroding away, each melting into the other, again and again.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   This is some scheme of Megatron’s.  It  _has_ to be.  A unilateral laying down of arms by the Decepticons?  Peace overtures?  An offer to rule over their joint armies – sorry, no, their joint  _populaces –_ together until a permanent treaty can be agreed?  There’s no way this can be real… but for the sake of his battle-weary Autobots, Optimus has to at least give it a try.  And so the Decepticons move into Autobot City, and Megatron moves into Optimus Prime’s personal quarters with him.  Well, they  _are_ the quarters allocated for the leader, are they not?  
  
Red Alert nearly glitches at the prospect.  He’s already insisting on intensive surveillance and round-the-clock guards.  Optimus indulges him, though he’s certain that Megatron won’t resort to anything as unimaginative as simply stabbing him in his sleep.  Megatron is on enemy territory here; he knows he’d never leave HQ alive if he killed Optimus.  
  
Megatron curls a lip at Optimus’s creature comforts, though the Autobot leader doesn’t have many:  a chunk of obsidian taken from the volcano where the Ark crashed, a rotating scale model of their homeworld, a mesh blanket, a lightweight sphere of some kind, a shelf of Cybertronian datapads and human books.  (The books have all been digitised by now so that Optimus can read them easily, but the original volumes were gifts, and he finds the minute intricacy of their pages charming.)  Megatron himself has brought only a few possessions, mostly practical in nature – a gun-cleaning kit and a stack of datapads that certainly don’t contain ludicrous stories made up by  _humans._ There’s only one decorative item in the bunch, and Optimus refuses to let him put it up.  Severed Autobot heads are really not conducive to building a good working relationship.  
  
They fall into a surprisingly companionable rhythm, for two mechs who’ve been trying to kill each other for millions of years.  It feels so good just to talk, and not worry about keeping up a front for either army.  Besides, who else is going to understand the problems of leadership?  Megatron even offers to give Optimus a bit of advice on managing his troops; Optimus steels himself for a rant about Decepticon discipline versus Autobot softness, but Megatron simply tells him that putting “that young Praxian who won’t stop talking” into a permanent team would help ease his nerves.  
  
Optimus shrugs, pouring another round of energon for both of them.  “I try to avoid creating too many smaller squads.  It breeds factionalism.”  
  
“Between trines and gestalts, I’ve never had that option,” Megatron chuckles.  “But they do have their uses.  Thank you.”  He accepts the cube with a gracious nod.  
  
If this  _is_ a scheme, Megatron is playing his part to the hilt.  Optimus catches himself starting to enjoy this arrangement.  
  
A few days in, Megatron nods to the odd sphere he noticed among Optimus’s possessions.  “What is its function?”  
  
And that’s how the commander of the Autobots taught the lord of the Decepticons to play basketball.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With  _Star Wars_  (and not just because of the obvious parallels with the 1986 movie :P).  G1, to my mind, comes closest of any of the  _Transformers_ series to the concept of the evil empire versus the ragtag bunch of rebels.  So why not have Megatron seek an alliance with the Empire?  With their combined might, and the mix of Cybertronian technology and that mystical slag that Megatron doesn’t entirely trust, but that he has to pretend impresses him for the sake of his new ally, they can easily crush the last vestiges of resistance to both their regimes.  (And then they’ll turn on each other, of course; there’s only room for one ruler of the galaxy.  But Megatron is patient.  These flesh creatures do not live long.  If one generation gives him trouble, he can simply blink his optics, and a new generation will have taken its place.)  
  
For all his skepticism about this “Force” business, Megatron rather relates to what he learns of Sith philosophy – and the Jedi Order the Sith replaced, with its mealy-mouthed commitment to “balance” and its emphasis on self-denial, sounds awfully Autobot to him.  Megatron looks askance at the Emperor, a political schemer with no apparent talent for either combat or strategy, but likes the cut of Darth Vader’s jib.  A ruthless warrior who strikes fear in the hearts of his enemies, and who has had the good sense to upgrade his vulnerable flesh with powerful technology?  Why, he’s almost fit to be a Decepticon!  It’s a pity that Vader doesn’t feel the same way.  He finds Megatron’s lack of faith disturbing.  
  
Some of the Decepticon troops take to the Stormtroopers (that is, after the initial horror and disgust when they see the ranks of adorably tiny robots suddenly rip off their own heads, revealing that they’re fleshies underneath!   _Ewwww!_ ).  They become drinking buddies, and share fighting techniques (with squadrons of TIE fighters learning trick maneuvers from Decepticon flyers), and they even practice shooting together!  
  
… Wow, that suddenly explains  _so much.  
  
_ The Rebel Alliance is collectively bricking itself at the sight of the Empire’s humungous new mechanical troops, so Princess Leia is incredibly relieved when the Autobots show up and offer to help fight their combined foes.  Leia and Optimus become fast friends, and they spend many nights together sitting up to go over tactics, snark back and forth at each other, and commiserate about how impossible it sometimes feels to be both an untouchable symbol  _and_ a soldier in the trenches.  Han Solo gets into tipsy shooting contests with Bluestreak and Mirage, while Kup puts his feet up, chews his cygar, and mocks the “kids”.  As for the actual  _Star Wars_ bots, C3PO gets quasi-adopted by Inferno, who’s fond of smaller bots with posh voices, and who finds Threepio’s neuroses reminiscent of his mate Red Alert’s.  (Luckily, that means Inferno’s become an expert at soothing those fears.)  R2-D2, it turns out, is  _absolutely hilarious_ if you speak binary, and quickly becomes the most popular guy in the Autobot mess hall.   
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Human AU, set in the late Roman Republic.  Optimus Primus and Dominus Megatronus are Roman legionaries, fighting in the army of the consul Gaius Marius.  A few generations before, neither of them could have joined the military, because their families would have been too poor to equip them; however, Marius has changed all that by opening up the army to Rome’s poorest and paying for their armour and weapons himself.  Primus and Megatronus are fiercely loyal to their commander, and eagerly follow him on campaign to exotic and terrifying places, from the Sahara desert to the unexplored northern forests.  Along the way, the two soldiers become close friends.    
  
Dominus is a big, broad-chested, scarred veteran, ferocious in battle and a favourite of the men in his unit.  He tells the best campfire stories, whether they’re his own exploits, fables passed down from his mother (who hailed from a place across the sea, with strange gods, he tells them), or legends from the history of Rome.  (His personal favourite is the story of Romulus, a son of the god of war but raised by a humble human family, who rose to wrest power away from a weak and corrupted king, and found the greatest city the world has ever seen.)  Dominus always seems to know what to say to the other troopers, from the hardened old-timers to the greenest recruits, and if he’s sometimes a little less deferential to the officers than is really good for him, it only makes the rest of the unit like him more.  Optimus is also a big bear of a man, though he’s younger, and a good deal quieter than his friend.  He prefers listening to Dominus’s stories, rather than telling his own.  Optimus is as respected among the men, though, and on the rare occasions when he pipes up to disagree with Dominus on some point, the other soldiers listen.  Optimus also seems to have a gift for finding the saddest or most frightened member of any unit, and just unobtrusively keeping him company, slowly drawing him out of his shell and finding the words to give him courage.  
  
On the battlefield, the two are unstoppable.  They fight back to back, or covering each other with their shields, and they’re notorious for making quips and bets during combat.  One time, Dominus won a week’s ration of wine off Optimus by being the first to take down fifteen enemy soldiers.  Optimus grumbled, but not for long; after all, in that same battle, Dominus had abruptly hooked an arm around Optimus’s neck and yanked him back, taking an arrow in the forearm that had been meant for Optimus’s throat.  Most of that wine ended up going to cleanse the wound or dull the pain.  Dominus still likes to show off that scar and tell people about the bet.  
  
Optimus and Dominus have been sleeping together for almost as long as they’ve been friends.  It started one night when they were on watch together, and Dominus made a crack about their comrades all sneaking off to spend the night with the local women after the battle.  Optimus snorted dismissively, and Dominus gave him a curious look.  “And you – you’ve never felt your blood up after a fight?”  
  
“Of course I have, brother.  But…”  Optimus’s voice grew quiet, and he cast a sidelong glance at his friend.  “I like it better when my partner in the fight… is my partner for what comes after.”    
  
They barely made it until their relief showed up, and then they beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the camp and Dominus, growling, pressed Optimus up against the stockade.  Afterwards, they slept sprawled over each other in the common tent, relishing the solid weight of each other’s bodies.  
  
Optimus would be happy to continue like this forever – his friend, his sword, and the world laid out before them – but the times are changing.  Marius has shown himself more than willing to use force to get what he wants from the Senate, and Optimus and Dominus may soon find themselves in the uneasy position of fighting Roman citizens instead of foreign kings.  Meanwhile, there are officers within Marius’s own army – some of them as low born as Dominus or Optimus themselves – who are watching their general for any sign of weakness, ready to pounce and take over.  And Optimus begins to see the gleam in Dominus’s eyes, and realises what it means:   _If they can do it, why can’t I?_    
 
  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:**  I’m a sucker for post-war fics where the winners have to decide what to do with the soldiers from the losing side, but I’ve seen very few (for understandable reasons) where both commanders survive the war.  I’d love to see more of that – especially fic where Megatron ends up in Optimus’s custody.  I don’t think that Optimus in G1 wants to rehabilitate Megatron.  He’s pretty convinced that Megatron’s without mercy or scruples.  But I think he  _would_ feel a certain sadness at the idea of having his nemesis executed.  Megatron would most likely play on that as best he could to try and keep himself alive until he could stage a breakout.  And if some massive common threat (*cough*Unicron*cough*) arises, and Optimus knows that Megatron’s tactical savvy and ability to rally the surviving Decepticons could make the difference between life and death for all of them?  Well,  _now_ things get interesting.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Optimus Prime Is A Sexual Serial Killer Darkfic Count: 2


	18. Overlord and Fortress Maximus (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anonymous request on Tumblr.
> 
> Very serious warnings on this one: Gore and graphic depictions of physical and psychological torture. Mentions of violence, including brief allusions to suicide. Dubcon. Noncon nonsexual BDSM. Mentions of consensual BDSM. Basically, everything the name "Overlord" might conjure up for you.

  * **Fake dating:**   When Drift, Chromedome, and Brainstorm arrive at Fortress Maximus’s cell in the dead of night, answering the summons they each received, they’re startled to see one another – and immediately suspicious.  After all, why would anyone connect the three of them?  Unless…  
  
Fort Max beckons them close to the bars, and his whisper confirms their worst fear.  _“I know about Overlord.”  
  
_ Brainstorm and Chromedome turn to look at Drift, who hesitantly opens his mouth to try and explain, but Max waves him off.  “I’m not angry.  To tell you the truth, I was so relieved to find out he was still alive, I…”  He trails off, staring at his hands.  “Please, never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.  Especially not Rodimus – or Rung.  I’m ashamed of it, but… Overlord and I… it… it wasn’t _all_ bad.  Towards the end of those three years –” _two months, and ten days_ “– he started treating me… better.  The torture stopped; we actually started to talk and… we grew… close.  Please understand what it’s taking me to admit this.  Overlord… I fell in love with him.”  He hasn’t met their optics this entire time, but he does now, his expression pleading as he looks to each of them in turn.  “I’m begging you.  Just let me see him.”  
  
Drift’s optics are narrowed skeptically, but Chromedome takes his arm and steers him into a huddle a little further away.  They can’t get too far without straying alarmingly close to the cell of some sleeping Decepticon, though, so Fort Max can still make out what they’re saying.  
  
“No, seriously, I’ve seen this before.  It happens all the time in kidnapping cases.  It doesn’t matter how nasty the captor is; if he acts nice even a little bit of the time, the prisoner starts to care about him.  I think Max is telling the truth.”  
  
“Even if he is, are you actually suggesting we feed this… complex?”  
  
“Cutting him off cold doesn’t seem to have made him any healthier, does it?”  
  
“You can’t – Chromedome, Fort Max had a breakdown the last time he saw a _picture_ of Overlord!”  
  
“Yeah, but maybe not for the reasons we think!  He thought Overlord was dead, remember?  Maybe that was as much _grief_ as fear.  He’s not freaking out now that he knows Overlord’s on the ship, is he?  If we let him see for himself that Overlord’s all right – well, depending what you call ‘all right’ – then maybe it’ll give him some closure.  I’m not Rung, so I don’t know, but I’ve been inside enough people’s heads to have some idea how they tick, and it’s not like we can _ask_ Rung.  This one’s gotta be our call.”  
  
They beckon Brainstorm over, and Fortress Maximus can’t quite hear anymore, but it’s clear from the way Brainstorm stands firmly at Chromedome’s side, one hand on the orange mech’s shoulder, and stares Drift down that he’s chosen his side.  Drift’s thoughts on the matter are equally easy to read in his stiffened posture and wary, simmering optics.  But outvoted is outvoted.  They return to Fort Max, and explain the rules:  He’ll get one visit only, no more than five minutes, closely monitored, and they won’t hesitate to pull him out if he so much as _looks_ at Overlord wrong (or vice versa).  Max dips his head and thanks them humbly.  “I just want to see him again, make sure he’s really all right,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over the bars.  
  
The playacting sickens him, but it serves its purpose:  
  
 _It gets him inside Overlord’s cell._  

  * **Bodyswap:**   The sense of triumph Fortress Maximus feels when he looks down at himself, helpless, on the slab, and realises what’s happened cannot be described.  This is his chance at freedom!  He can free his troops, if there are any still alive, and call for help; maybe even knock out Overlord in his body, drag him onto a ship, and leave.  After more than a year, the torture is finally going to end!  
  
But first, he’s going to make Overlord feel everything he did to Fort Max.  _Everything.  
  
_ Overlord’s reaction when he wakes up and sees his own face looming over him, a savage smile on those lips, is better than Fort Max could have hoped for.  He _screams_ in frustration, and thrashes wildly from side to side, muttering, “No… no… no…”  Anything but this; anything but being flat on his back, held down, made to surrender.  He swore this would never happen to him again, it _can’t_ –  
  
The buzz of a chainsaw breaks into his thoughts, and he screams again. _  
  
_Fort Max is thorough, starting with light jolts of electricity and working his way up until it nearly shorts out his prisoner’s spark, or taking a syringe full of cosmic rust and dangling it right between the optics, letting it inch ever closer.  All the while, he clucks sympathetically and strokes Overlord’s helm, just as Overlord always does to him. _Shh.  Just relax, and enjoy it.  You like this, don’t you?  You think I don’t see, but I can tell how much you relish being under someone else’s control._ He starts out being careful never to cause permanent damage – it _is_ his own frame, after all – but the disbelief and desperation in Overlord’s optics go to Fort Max’s head, and he starts tearing strips off his victim, slicing deep into his plating.  Just a little longer, he keeps telling himself.  They’ve got time.  A little more, make sure that Overlord _really_ feels it, and then Fort Max will go for help.  Just… a little… longer.  
  
When the switch back happens suddenly, the shriek of rage and panic Fort Max lets out is louder than any scream of pain Overlord has ever wrung from him.  It’s not just the abrupt agony of the wounds he inflicted on his own body, or the way Overlord is standing over him with murder in his optics.  It’s the knowledge (which he’s going to bear in every moment over the next two years) that he could have gotten free, and failed. __  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   This is the ultimate humiliation for Fortress Maximus.  After months of Overlord making sly, insinuating comments while torturing him, he (to his own mind, at least) goes and proves them all true, by being reduced to begging his captor to frag him.  Overlord is equally desperate, but grits his teeth and manages not to reveal that fact until Fort Max fesses up, writhing painfully in his bonds.  It’s so much sweeter to hear him beg… and so much more useful, in the long run, to let him believe that Overlord is doing him a _favour._  
  
Once Overlord has had the tests done to satisfy himself that Fort Max is as affected by the mysterious pollen as he is, and this isn’t some Autobot trick, he unlocks Max’s restraints… and Max launches himself at him.  For a second, Overlord thinks he’s made a disastrous miscalculation.  Then Fort Max is rubbing up against his thigh, and pulling Overlord’s hand down to cup his panel, all with a hunted look in his eyes.  
  
It’s more like combat than sex, with neither of them holding back; Overlord has been fantasising about taking his prisoner like this for months, and the pent-up desire, coupled with the effects of the pollen, makes him savage.  Fort Max is a match for him, though, even in his weakened state.  He’s absolutely wanton – he knows he’s going to despise himself in the morning, in any case, so he has no inhibitions left.  If Overlord claws at him, he snatches an antenna and _bites_ in retaliation; if Overlord throws him down onto the torture slab, Fort Max snarls and pulls him down on top of him, fingers hooking around Overlord’s hips to force their bodies more tightly together.  Overlord has the unnerving sense that he’s only dominating because Fort Max is _letting_ him.  
  
That causes him to be particularly brutal in his tortures the next day, but Fort Max almost welcomes it.  He feels like it’s what he deserves.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   … Okay, let me understand what you’re asking, here, meme.  This is a couple whose idea of “meet cute” is that one of them was taken prisoner and tortured relentlessly by the other, and you want me to make it _darker_?  
  
*cracks knuckles*  
  
 _Challenge accepted._  
  
Overlord is at his most beautiful like this.  
  
Which is not to say that Overlord isn’t always beautiful.  The others bring it out in him, as well.  Tesaurus’s whirring blades left those shapely legs torn into jagged ribbons, half-gone wires sparking like fireworks to illuminate the gorgeous, generous splatter of energon over the plating.  Helex’s acid drips slowly, melting into the rich blue metal with a sigh, creating a shifting map of scars that Fortress Maximus can trace again and again with his fingertips.  Each time the patterns are a little different, and each time the gentle touch makes Overlord whimper.  Vos’s face produces the best effect as it’s coming off; Fortress Maximus always leans forward, his ventilations hitching, to watch the way the spikes rip at the plating of Overlord’s lovely face.  The sprinkling of tiny holes makes Overlord look young, somehow, and vulnerable, each little wound leaking fat drops of energon, like tears.  And Tarn – well, he doesn’t talk to Overlord often, but when he does, his gift makes Overlord _writhe_.  It’s glorious.  
  
But Fortress Maximus likes him best when he’s in Kaon’s embrace.  The electricity sears through him, convulsing that powerful body, pouring out his optics and mouth.  It lights him up.  And it is Kaon’s special talent that makes Overlord scream the loudest – deep and ragged and wild, as if the sound is being torn from him.  Fort Max is half in love with Kaon, just for that.  
  
Occasionally, if he’s been very good about his training, Fort Max gets Overlord to himself for a while.  He savours those times.  He goes slowly, peeling at the frayed plating of Overlord’s mangled legs, or getting out his electro-whip (a gift when he completed the second level of his new education) and leaving stripes across the prisoner’s back and stomach, sharp, clean counterpoints to the sprawling rivulets of acid scarring.  Of course, Fortress Maximus has only been a member of the DJD for a few weeks, so he’s still very new to this.  He can’t yet produce the effects the others do; they’re _artists_.  But he doesn’t care.  All that matters is that, for those hours, Overlord’s spark and body are his.  
  
Overlord resists him.  Of course he does.  He resists Fortress Maximus more than he does any of the others.  He rallies enough to snarl, or mock the “good, heroic Autobot”, or paint dark pictures of what he’ll do to Fort Max in return, once he gets free again.  Fortress Maximus secretly loves it.  It means that Overlord hasn’t broken yet, and he has _so_ much more planned for him.  
  
That’s why Fort Max is shocked when Tarn takes him aside about two months in, and murmurs, “You know that we have to kill him.”  
  
“But – but that wasn’t the deal!”  
  
He should know, after all.  The words of their agreement are burned deep into Fort Max’s mind.  He recited them to himself, painstakingly, even as he broke free of his cell and rampaged through the _Lost Light_ ; even as he stepped over the corpses that had been his crewmates, intent only on taking the next hallway, then the next, until he finally reached the bridge.  He stopped seeing faces, and the screams of the dying merged into the screams of his men on Garrus-9 as Overlord tore them apart.  All that mattered was Overlord; all that mattered was the deal.  _I bring him to you, and you let me be a part of what you’re planning to do to him._ If Tarn takes Overlord away now, then he can’t be punished any more, and all of them – all the dead from Garrus-9 and from the _Lost Light_ – who have been kept at bay by the sweet sound of Overlord’s screams will rush back into Fort Max’s head.  
  
“It wasn’t,” Tarn agrees, “but it is our mandate.  You had to know that, surely?  Once the subject suffers all the agony he can be made to endure, he dies so that the legend of his death can strengthen the Decepticon cause.  I am not saying it has to be today, but sooner or later, Overlord must serve his last purpose.”  His voice is soothing and low – too low, Fort Max realises, as his spark slows its beating.  He’s not sure whether it’s an attempt to calm him, or a warning of what will happen if he protests.  He takes a deep vent.  
  
“Okay.  I propose another deal.  What if, in exchange for our keeping Overlord alive indefinitely, I give you the chance to cross a few other names off the List?”  
  
Fort Max was a prison warden for eons, and he still knows the locations and security codes of more than one abandoned holding complex.  This one is small, but adequate for his purposes.  As the _Peaceful Tyranny_ lands, Tarn’s optics widen behind his mask.  Fort Max takes him down the row of cells, all full of the captured Decepticons from the _Lost Light’s_ brig.  Every one of them earned a place on the List for allowing themselves to be captured alive – although Fort Max has a sneaking suspicion that Nautilator will somehow end up being spared, given the strangely soft, almost helpless expression in Tarn’s optics when Nautilator’s mouth opens, and Megatron’s voice comes floating out.  And then Fort Max takes him to the last cell, where his biggest bargaining chips are huddled on the floor.  Ambulon’s paint is badly flaked and coming away in chunks, and his optics are half-shuttered, as if he’s far away.  Drift has both arms wrapped around him, and is whispering against his audial – but scrambles to his feet when he sees Fortress Maximus.  “Max!  Max, listen to me.  This isn’t you – that wasn’t you, what you did on the ship.  Please, try to remember.  We’re your friends!  You’re safe with –”  
  
Tarn steps into view, and Drift stops abruptly, his hand going for his sword.  Fort Max wonders whether he intends to fight, or whether the sword is for Ambulon and then himself, so that they don’t have to face what comes next.  The point is moot, in any case.  Fort Max disarmed them when he first threw them in here.  He wasn’t a warden for nothing.  
  
 _“Deadlock,”_ Tarn breathes, sounding genuinely delighted to see him.  
  
As Drift starts to tremble, Fortress Maximus plays his trump card.  “As for Overlord – yes, I understand that normally, a subject must die to send a message.  But we have a chance to do something truly unique here, something that will terrify even the most hardened Decepticons.  We can make Overlord a _living_ testament to what becomes of traitors.  Can you imagine _that_ story?  That the DJD keep a treacherous Phase Sixer in unimaginable pain for his crimes, and he’s never allowed to die?”  
  
(Later, Fort Max will recount this word-for-word to Overlord, as he works his fingers into one of the delicate wounds on Overlord’s cheek, stretching it, rubbing at sensitive wires wet and sticky with fuel.  “Do you see what I did for you?” he’ll croon.  “Because you’re mine, and no one will ever take you from me.”)  
  
Tarn gazes at him thoughtfully.  “What name would you like to choose?”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
He can’t see the smile, of course, but he can hear it.  “I think this merits your elevation to full member of the Decepticon Justice Division.”  
  
“You honour me.”  Fortress Maximus salutes.  After a moment’s thought, he asks, “Do they all have to be cities?”  
  
“It’s traditional, but no.  Choose a name that will remind you of why we do the work we do.”  
  
Fort Max smiles in return, and the smile is like a knife.  “Call me Garrus-9.”  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**   Overlord likes pain.  (Stop the presses! :))  He _adores_ inflicting it, but he can also savour feeling it, as long as it’s pain received in combat, and not a punishment for having lost.  Overlord’s complex about defeat means that he will never submit, not even in play.  The only thing he loves more than breaking his partner physically is breaking them mentally.  Overlord takes great pleasure in patiently working his way into someone’s mind until he learns all of their buttons, how to make them thrash and scream and beg, not only with pain, but with _want_.  And then he can decide which responses he to evoke, and when.  The longer it takes to break someone, and the more they fight, the more Overlord enjoys it.  It’s one of the things he loves about Fortress Maximus.  
  
Fort Max has a secret submission kink, but he _doesn’t_ like pain.  His kink is more about feeling lovingly owned and looked after, like a pet (and he prefers to have a really tiny bot playing the role of his “owner”, though that matters less to him).  To Fort Max’s shame, Overlord starts to work this out from the way Fort Max comes to respond to his gentler touches.  And between torture sessions, he sometimes indulges him.  Collar; leash; blindfold; soothing strokes; soft commands and lavish praise for getting them right.  Whether it’s the rare high of not being in pain, even just for a little while, or the fact that Overlord manages, through trial and error, to figure out every detail of Fort Max’s fantasy, Fort Max finds these sessions intensely, horrifyingly arousing.  He’s mortified by what Overlord makes him feel, and hates himself for how readily he obeys his captor – who hasn’t been able to break him through torture – just to get a stroke of the helm and a, “Good boy, Max.”  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   He doesn’t know how long Overlord has left him out here.  It might be hours; it might be days.  He’s aware of nothing but pain, and his prisoners’ – former prisoners’ – faces crowding in at him, snarling, leering, spitting.  They’re feral, those faces.  He was the warden here a long time, and he’s come to know these mecha; sure, there were always those who would taunt the guards and start fights in the mess hall, but there were also the ones who held a grudging respect for him, or whom he ended up talking to late at night when they couldn’t recharge, providing a listening audial for their loneliness and fear without making them admit they were lonely or afraid.  But now, their expressions are identical, as bloodthirsty and mindless as scraplets – and like scraplets, they swarm him relentlessly, over and over, slowly pulling him apart.  
  
He’s half-conscious and almost delirious with fuel loss when Overlord comes out to get him, scooping him up and carrying him past the now-cowering inmates.  The silence when the doors close behind them is so welcome that Fortress Maximus slumps against Overlord in relief, and – because he doesn’t know, yet – murmurs, “Thank you.”  Overlord bends to brush a reverent kiss over his mouth.  
  
“Well, I couldn’t let them keep you.  We’re going to have such fun, you and I.”  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   I don’t know if Fortress Maximus has ever met Daddy Megatron and Mama!Wave face to face, but if he does, I think he’ll take the time to express his regard for their charming son with a couple of laser blasts to the head.  
  
I can see Overlord showing up at Fort Max’s childhood home, and gallantly introducing himself to Mama and Papa Max.  They’re a kindly older couple, long retired, who are overjoyed to meet their darling boy’s beau.  _We’re so proud of little Max,_ they tell Overlord, _but it’s still a shame that he’s stationed so far away.  We rarely get to speak with him anymore._ They whisk their guest into the kitchen and sit him down with a pot of heated energon and a heaping plate of home-oxidised rust sticks, and bombard him with questions.  _Is he doing well?  Is that prison really as dangerous as they say?  Is he eating right?  Military rations never seem like enough for a big boy like our Max.  Please try and persuade him to take a few days off, Mr. Overlord; we’d love to see him._ Overlord chuckles fondly, pours Mama Max another cup, and tells them he’ll do the best he can.  Oh, and please – it’s just Overlord.  
  
Meanwhile, Fortress Maximus himself is driving at breakneck speed towards his parents’ house, spurred on by an ominous subspace comm. he received:  _Think I might pay your family a little visit, Maxie.  I’m sure they’re just dying to meet me._   His head full of nightmare visions of a gore-soaked living room and his parents’ dead faces frozen in horror, Fort Max bursts through the front door –  
  
–and finds Overlord sipping energon out of one of the fancy mugs reserved for company, and laughing uproariously at something Max’s mother has just said.  
  
As Fort Max stares, Overlord catches sight of him and smiles benevolently.  “Max!  Your parents are truly delightful, sweetspark.  In fact…”  He puts a friendly arm around each of them.  “I just might keep them.”  
  
His parents laugh, but Max is watching Overlord, and just for a second, he sees that sweet smile _change._ It would hardly be detectable to anyone else.  But it’s enough to haunt Fort Max’s recharge for a long, long time. __  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   Really, _The Last Stand of the Wreckers_ could just as easily have been titled _Overlord Is the World’s Worst Live-In Boyfriend._ I mean, we’ve all had a partner or a roommate like that, right?  Comes barging in without asking, wrecks your stuff, murders everyone you know and care about in front of you…  
  
But if we were talking about a purely voluntary setup, this is how I imagine it would go:  
  
“For the last time, you can’t hang that there.”  
  
“And for Primus’s sake, why not?”  
  
“Because it’s _revolting_.”  
  
“Pick, pick, pick, Max.  This is going to be my home, too, you know.  Don’t I get a say in how it’s decorated?”  
  
“You get a say, but you do _not_ get to strew the living room with dead Autobot carcasses.  Is that even sanitary?”  
  
“Fiiiine.  They’ll look better in the bedroom, anyway.  Serve to get us in the mood, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
“ _NO_.  I’m already going to need to fix what you did to the walls in there.”  
  
“Don’t you like the new colour scheme?  I’ve always found purple very soothing.”  
  
“YOU PAINTED THEM WITH THE BLOOD OF YOUR ENEMIES, YOU FREAK.”  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   Human AU, crossover with _The Princess Bride_.  Fortress Maximus is the sole survivor on a ship that was captured by the Dread Pirate Overlord.  The pirate king takes a liking to the earnest, fearless young man, and grants him a place as his cabin boy.  Every night for years, Overlord says the same thing as they turn in:  “Goodnight, Max.  Sleep well.  I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”  
  
The difference is that, in this case, he really does mean it.  
  
(Of course, he wouldn’t actually kill him, and eventually they’d go off together and have adventures with the main cast.  Mostly because I desperately want to see a battle of wits between Vizzini and Overlord. :))  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Fort Max knew back when he took the job that the establishment he’d be providing security for was a little… unusual.  It’s a bordello of the very highest calibre, catering to mecha with specific tastes and the means to indulge them discreetly.  The pros who work here have a wide range of specialties.  There’s the cute little red-and-white number who does this trick of attaching his spark to yours via jumper cables, so that you don’t just feel each other’s overloads; they actually cycle into a feedback loop so intense that the result can knock you into stasis.  The sensation is said to push pleasure almost to the point of pain.  There’s the sexy little speedster with flamejets in his hands:  he lets the flames just barely lick against your plating, lighting up every circuit you’ve got.  That’s the opposite, pain that crosses over the line into pleasure.  Then there’s the slinky blue-and-white racecar with the plummy voice, who can play the decadent aristocratic dom to the hilt.  He’s also got an invisibility mod, which means he can double for clients who find the idea of being tantalized by someone they can’t see arousing.  Pit, there’s even that big, powerful tank who can supposedly force your spark into overload just by talking dirty to you.  (He answers the phones at the front desk, too.)  
  
None of it fazes Fort Max.  Sex workers need a safe workplace like anyone else, and he finds satisfaction in providing that.  Many of them like chatting with him because he isn’t a client they need to impress, which is how he finds out that the tank likes music; that the red-and-white is putting himself through medical school; that the racecar actually does come from a wealthy family, and works here from time to time (for specially selected clients) because he enjoys it.  Look past the glittering polish and the whispered hype about their erotic abilities, and they’re just people.  
  
Well… most of them.  
  
And then there’s Sir.  
  
It struck him as odd, at first.  In a place where half the employees have work pseudonyms that are Master this or Lord that or Mistress such-and-such, Sir is just Sir – not only to his clients, but to his colleagues.  It’s not as if he owns the place.  And yet, most of the others seem half-afraid of him.  
  
Sir deals in pain, they tell Fort Max.  Hardcore pain, humiliation, breaking.  He’s a maestro who knows exactly how to take each client right to the brink.  And – perhaps to maintain the mystique, or perhaps for reasons of his own – he makes a point of not mixing with his coworkers.  His is the big, thick-walled room at the end of the hall, where no one but his clients dare venture.  
  
Until the day Fort Max receives a ping with an outright invitation.  
  
When he knocks, a rich voice calls out, “It’s open.”  Max pads into the room cautiously.  Racks and walls are covered in a variety of instruments, some of which he recognises from the other doms’ chambers.  Others give him a shudder as they raise dim memories of nasty street brawls or of disarming crazed assassins in his previous jobs.  And still others he doesn’t recognise at all.  The air is thick with the tang of ozone and scorched metal; Sir’s client must have just left.  
  
Sir himself is sprawled on an elegant couch, smoking a cygarette and staring thoughtfully into space.  Fort Max folds his hands behind his back; he’s not about to break the silence.  
  
He can’t quite keep his gaze from wandering, though, which is why he’s just tilting his helm to study some kind of device with a lash and multiple needles attached to a central generator when he’s interrupted.  “Like what you see?”  He starts and looks over, meeting a set of smirking red optics, framed by tendrils of smoke.  “You strike me as the curious type, and I’d hate that curiosity to go… unsatisfied.”  
  
“That’s an interesting conclusion, considering we’ve never spoken,” Fort Max replies, then adds, “Sir,” belatedly.  Never a good idea to antagonise a protectee – well, unless you have to.  “Actually, after working here for a few months, I’m pretty used to seeing the equipment around.”  
  
“I didn’t just mean curious about the room.”  It comes out in a low purr.  
  
This, Fort Max knows how to deal with.  He feels himself unconsciously dropping into parade rest, hands behind his back.  “Sir, if this is going to end in a proposition, why don’t I just save us both some time?  It’s against my professional ethics to sleep with a protectee, so –”  
  
“Oh, no, I do realise that.”  It’s strange – most people raise their voices if they’re going to interrupt, or take on a more urgent tone, but Sir’s voice is as languid as ever.  It’s as if he knows instinctively that as soon as he begins speaking, everyone else will shut up.  “In fact, I have a more serious reason for calling you here.  Did you know that there are people here plotting to murder me?”  
  
Fort Max’s audials prick up despite themselves.  It’s more than likely all a game, but he’s learned, over the years, never to take a protectee’s instincts for these things lightly.  “Any idea who?”  
  
“I have my suspicions – big, purple, tank-shaped suspicions –”  He leans over to pour two small glasses of high grade from a crystal flask on the table.  “But no proof.  That’s where you come in.”  When Fort Max shakes his head at the offered glass, Sir just smiles and raises his own, downing it and licking his lips.  He has a remarkable mouth, Max notices:  overripe and sensual, but with something cruel about its lines.   
  
“Of course, I’ll look into it.  This is a very serious matter.”  
  
“I knew you’d come through.  I’m so lucky to have such a smart, strong mech to protect me.”  
  
Fort Max does not quite like the way Sir smiles, then.  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_ choice:**   I… kind of started to write this myself with “In the Wake”, but I’d love to see Overlord and Fort Max as allies.  Having them forced to team up _after_ the events of MTMTE 15 would be fascinating, but I would also really enjoy an AU where Garrus-9 never happened.  Instead of striking out on his own after he rebels against Megatron, Overlord defects to the Autobots.  He becomes Prowl’s prized Autobot Phase Sixer – not so much an ally as a living weapon.  The ’Bots’ usual strategy is to airlift him into an active combat zone and then pull right the hell out of there, allowing Overlord to do what he’s best at.  The only problem is usually _stopping_ him when the battle is over.   
  
Luckily, though, Overlord forms a strange bond with his handler, Fortress Maximus.  The calm, steady former prison warden has had a lot of experience pacifying powerful, violent mecha, and also in learning to see kind of potential for redemption in his charges.  Overlord finds him intriguing, and it quickly becomes apparent that he’s the only mech who can talk Overlord down from his battle-high.  Fort Max is wary of Overlord, naturally – is he really loyal to his adopted cause, even just for enemy-of-my-enemy reasons, or is he playing a very long game that’s going to end in revenge on both Megatron _and_ the ’Bots?  Max is also none too pleased at being ordered to sit out all the battles (Prowl doesn’t want to contemplate what Overlord might do if his only friend were killed in action).  But at the same time, For Max can’t deny that there’s something enticing about Overlord’s company…




	19. Grimlock and Rodimus (G1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was a request for Greyliliy. Warnings: consensual BDSM. Sex pollen section is rated NC-17 for explicit sex. Dark!fic contains medical procedures without proper consent and psychological manipulation of an intimate partner.

  * **Fake dating:**   “Me Grimlock not kisser!  Me Grimlock _king_!”  
  
“I know, Grimlock, but can’t you at least pretend?  For the sake of the mission?”  
  
“Hmf.  Why you Rodimus not ask other Autobots?   Why you no ask him Springer or her Arcee?”  
  
“Because I need you, all right?  If I get into that facility, I need my tank there with me.”  
  
“Me Grimlock not tank.”  
  
“Figure of speech.  Look, I’m not going to order you to pretend you’re my bondmate.  I would never force you into this.  I’m just asking for your help… please?”  
  
“… All right.  Me Grimlock help you Rodimus.  _Again._ ”  
  
“Thanks, Grim.  I really… um… what are you doing?”  
  
“Told you, me Grimlock not kisser.”  
  
Huh.  Rodimus always thought that meant that the Dinobot leader wasn’t keen on mushy stuff, not… this.  Grimlock’s vents are warm against his plating as he very carefully nuzzles Rodimus’s face and neck.  Rodimus has seen the Dinobots express their affection this way before, of course, but only in beast mode.  He never realised it carried over to robot form.  The nuzzling feels absurdly good, especially against his helm, and when Grimlock cranes around and brushes his spoiler… ohhhhh.   
  
“Yeah, keep doing that…” Rodimus breathes, then catches himself, his vent sputtering a little.  “I mean, in public.  For the mission!”  
  
It’s hard to tell with Grimlock’s faceplate in place, but Rodimus gets the faintest whiff of smugness as the Dinobot gives him one final caress and steps back.  
  
Grimlock takes to the ruse much more quickly than Rodimus hoped, albeit in typically Dinobot fashion.  He’s protective of his smaller “mate” almost to the point of broodiness, and for the duration of the mission, he refuses to leave Rodimus’s side.  Which works out well in tactical terms, once Rodimus convinces him to stop trying to pick him up and carry him around.  He’s more willing to tolerate Grimlock’s insistence on holding hands, except when Grimlock attempts to do it while in his alt mode, and Rodimus ends up running alongside him, desperately stretching up to cling to one tiny little 80s-T. Rex paw.  Rodimus himself shows more restraint – playing bondmates is one thing, but he’s still supposed to be a leader, not a newspark in love.  However, he does indulge in occasional bursts of affection, stroking his “mate’s” arm or sneaking up behind him to pet his helm.  (Which is how Rodimus discovers that Grimlock melts when you give him ear skritches, and that is far cuter than a bloodthirsty warrior has any right to be.)  
  
All for show, of course.  Ahem.  
  
Rodimus would never admit it, but he rather misses the steady stream of affection once the mission is over.  The one consolation is that Grimlock still seems to touch him more often than before.  True, it’s almost always just a soldierly pat on the shoulder or a light punch to the upper arm (for a given value of “light” – one incident leaves Rodimus with a visible dent, much to Grimlock’s embarrassment), but it’s something more than they had.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   Grimlock’s first thought, on waking, is that there must have been something pretty damned potent in that engex last night.  His frame feels itchy and about three sizes too small, as if he’s about to burst out of his plating.  
  
At first, it appears that his assessment that he’s suffering from the Worst Hangover on Record has been confirmed when the door opens, and Grimlock finds himself staring at… himself.  
  
He groans slightly, and lies back down, covering his visor…  
  
… _oh._  
  
No visor.  His faceplate appears to be missing, as well.  Weirdly miniature fingers trace the strange shape of his helm, the crest that shouldn’t be there, before frantically patting at his body.  Ohhh, this isn’t good.  
  
Someone is shaking him, and he opens the optics that aren’t his to see “Grimlock” peering down at him.  Before he can say anything, the other Grimlock hisses, “Look, I don’t know what’s happened, but we have to keep it between us.  Understand?  If the Decepticons find out that I’m not in my own body, they’re going to jump on the opportunity and attack.”  
  
The voice is Grimlock’s own, but the authoritative tone is familiar for a different reason.  Grimlock abruptly puts together whose frame he’s in.  
  
“R – Rodimus?”  His new voice is halting, but unmistakable.  
  
The other Grimlock nods.  “But for right now, _you’re_ Rodimus.  Got it?”  
  
“Me Grim… me _Rodimus_ undertand.”   
  
For some reason, that makes the other Grimlock put his head in his hands and moan softly.  
  
Perceptor gets a quiet heads-up so that he can start researching a solution; for the others, they pretend that Rodimus has shorted out his vocaliser, so Grimlock has to relay his commands for him.  If a few of the Autobots raise their eyebrows at this choice of interpreter, they’re loyal enough not to question it.  It helps that Rodimus throws himself into the part with gusto, stomping around the base and declaring himself “king” to everyone he meets.  Grimlock bristles at that – surely _that’s_ not what he sounds like? – but irritatingly enough, it seems that it is, at least to the audials of the other ’Bots.  
  
Rodimus tries to avoid open confrontations with the ’Cons while he and Grimlock are swapped, because they’re both a mess when it comes to combat.  Grimlock is used to fighting in alt mode, as his T. Rex form is a powerful weapon:  Rodimus’s alt isn’t.  Sure, it’s useful for moving around quickly, but Grimlock’s fighting style isn’t quick.  He’s a relentless, unstoppable wave of lashing tail and razor teeth.  Advancing slowly and terribly on your petrified enemy just doesn’t pack the same punch when you’re a truck.  Rodimus copes a bit better; he already traded speed for power to a certain extent when he upgraded from Hot Rod to Rodimus Prime, so he’s used to handling the initial clunkiness of the transition.  What he’s not used to is fighting with teeth and claws instead of weapons.  He feels like a sparkling, scrapping with his little friends – except that now his casual taps can kill.  
  
What Grimlock finds most disturbing is that he’s fundamentally cut off from the other Dinobots.  Even if he weren’t pretending he really is Rodimus, the frame switch itself makes simple things like moving as a pack or wallowing in a pond together all but impossible.  (At one point, he spots his brothers messing around in their favourite watering hole, and, on impulse, transforms and dives in to join them… which only gets his wheels lodged in the mud.  Rodimus spends the next day griping about the likely state of his drive shaft).  Dinobot cuddle piles risk crushing him.  What’s even worse is watching Rodimus clumsily join in all the simple family pleasures Grimlock is denied.  Rodimus, it must be said, makes a surprisingly good Dinobot – a little too good.  He can talk down Slag from his more violent rampages; he makes Snarl glow with a few well-chosen words of praise, and has Swoop purring when he nuzzles affectionately against his wings.  Pretty soon, the Dinobots are fighting more effectively than ever as a unit.  Grimlock, watching from afar, grits his bizarrely flat dentae, but there isn’t much he can do.  He isn’t Grimlock anymore, after all.  
  
But he _is_ Rodimus.  Mecha who used to treat him as stupid – or ignore his existence entirely – now nod respectfully to him in the corridors and seek him out to ask his opinion.  Maybe it’s time to take advantage of that.  
  
Rodimus is gobsmacked when he arrives at the morning briefing to “interpret”… only to be greeted by Springer petting his muzzle and saying, “Hey, buddy, good news!  Rodimus got his voice back!  You don’t have to waste your time translating for him anymore!”  Sure enough, Grimlock is in the briefing room happily holding forth about their new battle strategy.  His sentences are clipped, the words a little hesitant, but he’s determinedly using “I” instead of “me Rodimus”, making it clear that he’s been practicing for this.  Rodimus seethes, realising that he’s stuck in a situation he himself created.  No one will believe him if he identifies himself now – or if they did, they’d justifiably bristle at being deceived for so long.  He’s got no choice but to sit tight and wait for Perceptor’s solution.  
  
Things get worse, though, when the power goes to Grimlock’s head.  He starts demanding that the other ’Bots stand up when he enters the room, and co-opts the medical staff to give him long, pampering massage sessions.  When he goes so far as to start designing a crown, Rodimus realises that he has to speak up, regardless.  However, before he gets the chance, Kup strolls up to Grimlock and nonchalantly punches his lights out.  
  
In the aftermath, the entire story comes out, and Rodimus braces himself for the reactions.  Springer, Arcee, and Blurr are understandably upset, but in all honesty, they think that Kup clocking him was funny enough that it almost makes up for the deception. :)  Roddy supposes this is better than their being angry with him… _just._ Luckily, Perceptor’s reversal device is almost ready, and Rodimus and Grimlock are soon back in their proper bodies.  
  
“How did you know?” Roddy marvels to Kup, once he’s himself again and tenderly flexing his servos.  “It was the crown thing, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Nah.”  Kup grins.  “I got suspicious when you suddenly started wanting to hear my stories.”  
  

  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Rodimus tries to stay cool and professional while Perceptor explains what the mysterious pollen means, but inside, he’s gleeful.  As a young leader who’s had a hard fight to win his troops’ respect, and who tries to be scrupulously fair to all of them, Roddy’s maintained a policy of not fraternising with anyone under his command.  Which, given that he doesn’t meet many civilians day-to-day, pretty much leaves… Decepticons.  Yeah.  It can be a lonely, frustrating road to take, and the prospect of getting to break his own rule just once and have some no-strings-attached fun with someone he’s fond of is so very tempting.  I mean, it’s not like Grimlock’s going to have any objections to good, old-fashioned soldierly bonding… right?  
  
Which is why Rodimus is confused (and a little upset) when Grimlock folds his arms and commands Perceptor to find some other way for them to purge the pollen’s effects.  With uncharacteristic gentleness, Perceptor assures him that there isn’t any other way, and Grimlock storms out.  Roddy is about to follow when Perceptor catches his elbow.  
  
“I believe our dear Grimlock is embarrassed to ask for guidance,” he murmurs.  “He hasn’t been with anyone before, you see.”  
  
Rodimus blinks in surprise.  He doesn’t doubt that Perceptor would know, though:  not only has he taken over the majority of medical duties after Ratchet’s death, but Perceptor was a close friend of Ratchet’s and Wheeljack’s.  For all that he teases Grimlock and sighs over his denseness, Perceptor has also taken it upon himself to keep a discreet eye on Grimlock and the other Dinobots, for his late friends’ sakes.  He’s the closest thing to a parental figure they have left.  
  
Rodimus tracks down Grimlock, who’s by himself in the practice ring, running through a sequence of fighting moves.  From the way his vents are labouring, it’s clear that he’s running fiendishly hot, and Roddy suspects he’s trying to work off the excess charge.  Rodimus has gone through several dozen ways to start this conversation in his head, but seeing Grimlock shadow-sparring gives him a better idea:  he offers to practice hand-to-hand techniques with him.  (Ahem. J)  
  
Wrestling with Grimlock is agony.  Every touch sets his sensor net on fire, and whenever one of them gets the other in a lock, the full-body contact gets Rodimus so hot that he can barely keep his panel closed.  Finally, Grimlock manages to pin him, straddling his chest.  Rodimus can’t quite stifle a groan at that warm weight against him.  Looking up, he sees that Grimlock is staring, his visor bright with excess charge.  Rodimus runs his fingertips up the inside of Grimlock’s thigh, and Grimlock shudders, rocking against him with a faint whine.  
  
“Come on, Grim.  We both know it’s not going to get better on its own.  Perceptor’s right.”  When Grimlock still doesn’t respond, Roddy bites his lip, and feels rather than sees a shiver go through the Dinobot.  “I know this is your first time and all –”  
  
“Me Grimlock not _stupid,_ ” Grimlock grinds out.  “Know how to frag.  Just never had chance to try before.”  His visor dims as he studies his leader beneath him.  “You Rodimus make fun of me Grimlock?”  
  
“Nope.  Not about this.  I promise.  I never tease people in the berth unless that’s what they like.”  
  
“Why other ’Bots like be teased?”  
  
“Maybe someday I’ll show you – but not right now.  I think we’re both past that point.”  To illustrate, he strokes Grimlock’s thigh again, this time hooking his fingers into the join at the Dinobot’s hip.  Grimlock’s fans crank up higher, and his plating is practically scorching Rodimus’s stomach.  “Grim, it’s okay.  You wouldn’t mind if I knew a fighting move you didn’t, and showed you how to do it, right?  And no one would make fun of you for learning something new.  Just think of it like that.”  
  
Grimlock considers this for a moment.  
  
Then he retracts his mask and kisses Rodimus savagely, his hands raking over Rodimus’s armour and probing into every crevasse they find.  
  
Rodimus barely gets him back to his quarters before the two of them just spring at each other, grappling and looking for weak points in each other’s defences as if they’re still in the practice ring.  They’re too far gone for the kind of leisurely lesson Rodimus would have preferred to give, but Grimlock doesn’t seem to mind.  In fact, he quickly dominates the proceedings, pushing Rodimus onto the berth and bucking against him needily.  Grimlock’s touches are rough, his technique nonexistent, but, under the circumstances, Roddy finds that it’s revving him up more than he would have believed.  The temptation to lie back and let himself be taken is strong, but that would be breaking his promise to show him the ropes (not to mention possibly breaking a few other things:  Grimlock is considerably bigger than he is, and even in his near-frantic state, Rodimus is well aware of the damage his partner could inflict).  It’s a bit of a struggle to convince Grimlock to let him lead.  The Dinobot refuses to lie down underneath Rodimus, but he lets himself be persuaded to sit at the edge of the berth, like an enthroned king, so that Roddy can climb onto his lap and guide Grimlock’s spike inside him.  It’s a good position, since it allows Rodimus to put Grimock’s hands where he needs them, while also leaving Rodimus’s hands free to explore.  When he finds a spot that makes Grimlock downright _growl_ and clutch his hips hard enough to leave paint transfers, Rodimus arches back with a moan.  “You’re a fast learner,” he pants to Grimlock, who is seizing the opportunity to trail his glossa down Rodimus’s chest, and then, “Oh, Primus, _more!_ ”  
  
It doesn’t take long for them both to hit overload, but a single overload doesn’t entirely purge the pollen from their systems.  It does, however, allow them both to relax enough for Rodimus to guide Grimlock through a few other tricks at a more languid pace.  By the time they’ve finally worked the alien aphrodisiac off, they’re both worn out, draped wordlessly over each other, listening to the pings of cooling metal.  
  
 They can’t do this again, Rodimus reminds himself as he rubs Grimlock’s abdominal plating comfortingly and listens to him sigh.  But hey, at least Grimlock won’t feel so awkward when he finds someone else he wants to take to berth.  
  
He wishes that thought made him feel better.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   It started with the accident.  The one that gave Grimlock the mind of a genius, if only for a day.  
  
Grimlock is happy to forget the whole thing ever happened, but it stays with Rodimus.  What the Autobots lack at the moment isn’t strength – the Dinobots and multiple combiner teams have that taken care of – but strategy.  There are some good tactical minds in their midst, sure, but no one on the level of an Optimus or a Prowl, and Perceptor is carrying most of the burden of the Autobot science division since Wheeljack’s death.  After he got zapped, Grimlock was throwing out theorems that even Perceptor had trouble following.  That’s what they need.  
  
After he hashes the whole thing out with Perceptor, Rodimus goes to Grimlock.  They’ve been together for some time now, and Rodimus hates asking this of his partner – but Grimlock is the only one they know who’s gone through the process, and can clearly take it without dying.  So he asks.  Begs, really.  The Autobots need this, and doesn’t Grimlock remember how brilliant his creators were?  _How much they despaired of you,_ Rodimus’s look adds, though he doesn’t say it.  Wouldn’t he like to honour Ratchet’s and Wheeljack’s memories by following in their footsteps?  
  
The guilt trip is a good one – Rodimus obviously learned from his predecessor – but Grimlock became an expert at resisting Optimus’s persuasion, and Rodimus is no Optimus.  
  
However, he does have tricks at his disposal that Optimus never had.  In the days after Grimlock refuses, he can sense Rodimus pulling away from him, spending more time with the other Autobots – even mooning over Perceptor, for Primus’s sake.  And in those rare times when they are together, Rodimus grumbles that all they seem to do is spar and frag.  He makes a point of sighing about how only really _intelligent_ mecha seem to hold his interest for very long, and tugs away in irritation when Grimlock tries to touch him.  
  
Grimlock knows perfectly well he’s being played, but the flicker of contempt in Rodimus’s optics stings as much as if it were honest.  
  
What can he do, but give in?  
  
The surge of electricity Perceptor injects into him tears through his systems like fire, making him roar and shudder in pain.  It also grabs his brain and twists it cruelly, forcing it into a cold, alien alignment.  In that moment, it’s as if he can suddenly see all of Cybertron at once, gazing down at the planet from an impossibly distant height.  He looks at the two other mechs in the room with him – Perceptor switching off the machine; Rodimus grinning, throwing his arms around Grimlock and rewarding him by peppering his mask with kisses – and his brain starts to casually spit out statistics on them both:  rank, designation, height, firepower, abilities, weaknesses.  Whimpering, he squeezes his optics shut against the intrusive flood of data, and leans into Roddy’s touch.  
  
They spend hours poring over star charts.  Grimlock’s hands move almost faster than Rodimus can make out, plotting new lines of attack and defence; then he moves on to weaponry, scribbling equations for doomsday devices.  Rodimus eventually just stands back, bringing him fuel when he needs it and urging him to keep going, hold off recharge, it won’t be that much longer before…  
  
The effects of the device wear off gradually; it starts with Grimlock forgetting what comes next in an equation, and then forgetting what some of the symbols he’s already jotted down mean when he tries to retrace the thread of his thoughts.  He clutches his helm.  He can _feel_ it being ripped out of him, chafing his already-sore processor to the point of agony, and he stares in horror as the equations in front of him break apart into a sea of disjointed symbols… and then a mass of squiggles.  No!  He was almost there!  So many ideas, whispering in his audials, hovering just out of his reach – if he could just – just _think_ –  
  
He lets out a wail of loss, even though the knowledge of what he’s lost is receding as well; the feeling lingers, like the terror left over from a forgotten nightmare.  Rodimus takes his arm, and leads him gently to the berth, murmuring how proud he is of Grimlock for doing so well.  
  
The new strategic direction is wildly successful.  Within a month, they have Galvatron’s forces on the defensive.  As the moment approaches for a decisive strike, though, Rodimus finds himself fretting.  Surely this would go so much better if he just had someone to check his calculations?  
  
Grimlock doesn’t give in as easily this time.  He snarls at the suggestion, and almost storms out of the command centre, until Rodimus calls him back, reminding him that he _could_ make it an order.  Stunned, Grimlock gapes at him, then sets his mouth in a hard line.  “Me Grimlock obey… _Prime._ ”  
  
Once again, the procedure is agonising, and the subsequent reversion even more so.  Grimlock’s acquired wisdom enables him to pick out a major flaw in Rodimus’s plan, though, and the Autobots end up striking a blow that sends the Decepticons reeling.  Rodimus is wild in the berth that night, screaming Grimlock’s name, and whether it’s leftover battle-fever or his rather twisted idea of a reward, Grimlock can’t help but feel that the pain was worth it.  He submits more docilely the next time.  
  
And the next time.  And the next.  
  
The reversion is happening more quickly now – a painful crash rather than a slow, terrible collapse.  At one point, in the last flare of fading genius, Grimlock runs some quick calculations and realises what the changing response time means.  His synapses are starting to short circuit.  If they keep the process up, his entire brain will burn out.  He has to warn them!  He has to tell Rodimus –  
  
– something.  
  
Again, there is that unpleasant, raw feeling of a vital memory hovering just beyond his reach.  
  
Little does he imagine that Rodimus already knows.  Perceptor drew him aside two, maybe three sessions ago, and filled him in.  “His processor can’t take the strain.  We have to stop.”  
  
“We’re not stopping.”  
  
“But Rodimus, you don’t understand.  Another five procedures like this, six at the outside, and Grimlock’s brain will begin to malfunction, leading to eventual shutdown.  Not only will it kill him, it will kill him in the most drawn-out and gruesome way you can imagine.”  
  
Rodimus clenches his fists, and forces himself to listen to every word out of Perceptor’s mouth before he says, “We’re.  Not.  Stopping.”  
  
“Then we are _murdering_ him.”  
  
“There’s no ‘we’ in this, Perceptor.  I take full responsibility for the decision.  You are simply following orders.”  _But you will follow them,_ is the unspoken second half of that sentence.  
  
“And that’s supposed to assuage my conscience?”  
  
“One life against the thousands of Autobots and neutrals on Cybertron.  _One!_ Stick that in your _conscience._   Each of our soldiers is more than willing to throw away their life on my orders.  Some of them already have, in ways that were plenty gruesome – and completely unnecessary, if I’d only had the tactical wisdom to see it.  Do you really think I’m going to pass up the chance to do better by the survivors, just because I have to give up one Autobot life in exchange?  That’s not what it means to be Prime.”  
  
And so Rodimus crouches by the medical berth, and strokes Grimlock’s helm in long, halting sweeps.  Grimlock lets out a pained whimper.  He’s come to fear the sessions lately, though he doesn’t understand why:  something to do with the searing flood of information that he can’t remember once it’s passed.  He presses up into Rodimus’s hands.  And Roddy, shaking and trying to hide it, whispers that Grimlock doesn’t have to be afraid… that it won’t be much longer now, and then he can finally rest.  
  

  * **Secret kinks:**   Grimlock would never admit it, but he really, _really_ likes the leash.  In fact, that’s pretty much how he figured out that he fancied Rodimus in the first place.  Rodimus lassoed him and dragged him onto the _Ark,_ and Grimlock felt an unexpected prickle of interest running through his systems.  Being utterly revved for battle and then having that feral drive restrained turns him on something fierce.  Since then, they’ve experimented with other forms of bondage, and Grimlock enjoys most of them, but it will always come back to the collar and leash for him.  He loves the way the collar tightens around his throat, constricting the flow of air through his vents almost to the point of pain and forcing his plating to heat even more.  And he loves struggling against the leash, fighting to get free… although some part of him relishes the moment where he finally gives up the struggle, sagging exhausted and letting the leash go slack, and Rodimus strokes him and calls him a good boy.  
  
Grimlock also has a few kinks that stem from being a Dinobot.  He likes to go hunting with his partner; somewhere deep in his psyche, it sets off a little ping that says “courtship ritual”, even though he knows the other Autobots don’t think of it that way.  It’s one reason he finds himself fighting hardest when he and Rodimus are alone against the enemy.  Subconsciously, he wants to show off his prowess for his mate.  He enjoys grooming and being groomed, as well.  It’s not necessarily a sexual thing – it’s just a satisfying form of affection, one he also shares with his Dinobot brothers – but it can make for excellent foreplay when he’s in one of his more laid-back moods.  
  
Rodimus loves being held down by a bigger, stronger partner.  It wasn’t hard for him to find larger partners back when he was Hot Rod, but as Rodimus Prime, he’s easily a physical match for most other Autobots; at the same time, he feels the need to be dominated more than ever, because it’s one of the few situations in which he feels able to put the burden of being Prime down, if only for an hour.  Grimlock is not only big enough to pull it off, but he also gets almost as big a kick out of wrestling with and ultimately subduing his leader as Rodimus gets out of being subdued.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   I’ve always kind of thought it was bullshit that in the episode “Five Faces of Darkness”, Grimlock is so overjoyed when Rodimus returns from near death that he kisses… Arcee.  Uh-huh.  So I’m going to completely co-opt that scene for my own ends instead.  
  
Grimlock has never felt really helpless before, not like this.  There’s nothing he can do as his Prime lies there, bleeding his life out in sizzling flashes of energy.  Grimlock rails, shaking Rodimus, yelling at him, commanding him to wake up (and hoping that Rodimus will at least stir to argue chain of command with him), but to no effect.  Rodimus’s optics are staticky and vacant.  Wherever he’s gone, it’s somewhere Grimlock can’t follow.  
  
Until Rodimus suddenly comes back, air rushing through his vents as he convulses and coughs in Grimlock’s and Springer’s arms.  Grimlock’s spark clenches in his chest, and without thinking, he leans over to plant a firm, almost stern kiss – _don’t you dare scare me like that_ – on Roddy’s mouth.  
  
Things don’t go quite as planned, mostly because Grimlock has forgotten that he’s in beast mode, so Rodimus wakes up from a vision about the nightmarish aliens who created their race only to see equally terrifying fangs descending on him.  He lets out a yell and reflexively kicks Grimlock in the stomach, which leads Grimlock to try and smack him (again, not taking his beast mode and its limited reach into account), and the scene dissolves into complete chaos for a few minutes until both Rodimus and Grimlock have gotten a hold of their combat instincts.  
  
“I’m glad you find my near-death so amusing,” Rodimus comments dryly to Springer, who is leaning on Arcee for support as he gasps with laughter.  
  
“So am I!” Springer replies brightly.  
  
Grimlock is more angry with himself than anyone else, but you wouldn’t know that from the way he snarls and snaps his jaws at anyone who tries to speak to him for the rest of the day.  That is, until the flight back.  They’re both dangling from Springer’s runners as he carts the team back home, and Rodimus manoeuvres until he and Grimlock are face-to-face.  “Hey, Grim?”  
  
“What you Rodimus want?”  Grimlock stares determinedly off into space, so he isn’t prepared for the soft kiss Roddy lays on the side of his muzzle.  
  
“Thanks,” Roddy whispers.  
  
“Can you two wait until you’re not physically attached to my body before you start in?  _Ugh,_ ” mutters Springer.  Rodimus grins.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**  Rodimus has met Ratchet and Wheeljack, of course.  They were even around when he first started dating Grimlock.  
  
You’d imagine that Ratchet would be the protective, brain-you-with-a-wrench-if-you-hurt-my-baby type, while Wheeljack would be the more easygoing dad, right?  That’s what Rodimus thought, too.  So he was surprised and pleased when Ratchet warmly congratulated him and Grimlock, and told him to consider the Dinobots’ family his family as well.  “Look, kid,” he said, putting an arm around then-Hot Rod’s shoulders, “I know that you’re new to the _Ark_ , and I’m glad that you and Grim found each other.  Tell you the truth, I think you’re good for him.  Just so long as you do right by our boy, we’re here for you.  I promise.”  And he pulled Roddy into a rare hug that made his spark soar.  
  
All of this served to lower his defences, so that when Wheeljack cheerfully asked if he could have a “quick word”, Hot Rod grinned and replied, “Hey, anything for Grimlock’s creators, right?”  
  
“Okay, three things.”  Wheeljack pulled the young bot into a corner and ticked the list off on his fingers.  “Grimlock has no experience dating, he’s a lot more sensitive than you probably think, and I know how to slip a bomb – with enough of a payload to reduce you to a smouldering hunk of fused circuits – so deep under your plating that no scan will ever detect it until it’s triggered.”  And then he, too, hugged Roddy.  “Now you two crazy kids have fun together!”  
  
Wheeljack has been gone for years, and Rodimus misses him – misses both of Grimlock’s creators, acutely.  But he’s still gripped by the occasional fear that there’s a mysterious itch under his plating, or that he can hear a phantom ticking.  
  
Grimlock doesn’t get to meet Rodimus’s parents until well after the Autobots retake Cybertron and a reasonably stable civilian society has sprung up.  They arrive on a freighter one afternoon, and Rodimus immediately has them whisked to his office.  He looks years younger, Grimlock realises, as he bounds up with his arms outstretched.  “Mom!  Dad!”  
  
“Well, well.  The Prime himself.”  
  
Rodimus stops in his tracks.  It would almost have been better if his mother had sounded cold, or sarcastic.  Instead, she sounds unbearably sad.  
  
“Are we under arrest?” his father asks in a small, wounded voice.  
  
“Under – what?  No!  Of course not!  I just wanted to see you is all.  I mean,” Rodimus grins too wide, too brightly, “why on Cybertron would I arrest you?”  
  
“Our Hot Rod wouldn’t,” his mother retorts.  “But we don’t know _Rodimus Prime,_ or what he might do.”  
  
Roddy seems to crumple in on himself.  He manages to get out, “I haven’t seen you in _five million years._ Do we have to do this now?”  
  
“Oh, and now you’re throwing that in our faces.  Who ran away from home to go join those awful… oh, which faction was it?”  Rodimus’s father makes a show of stroking his chin in thought.  “Or does it really matter, since they’re both as bad as each other?”  
  
There’s no way he’s actually forgotten – Rodimus’s parents are apolitical, but they’re not _stupid_.  Still, Rodimus grinds his teeth and grits out, “Autobots.”  
  
They’re both wearing the same achingly tragic expressions now, and Grimlock suddenly realises where Rodimus gets the big, melting turbo-pup eyes he can use to such great effect.  The difference is that on Rodimus, they make Grimlock ready to do anything to make his mate not sad anymore, and here, they kind of make Grimlock want to smack Rodimus’s creators.  
  
“We raised you better than this.  We didn’t raise you to be a mindless killer.”  
  
“No, you raised me to give a frag when people were hurting!” Rodimus yells.  “The Autobots _needed_ me, Mom; the Decepticons were –” He breaks off, takes a shuddering breath, and draws himself up.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t bring you here to fight.”  
  
His father places a gentle hand on his mother’s shoulder.  “We’ll just go.”  
  
“No, please; it’s been so long.  I was hoping that I could maybe show you around the city?  And I wanted you…”  He ducks his head, suddenly shy.  “I wanted you to meet my mate.  This is Grimlock.”  Without looking up, he reaches out blindly, and Grimlock steps forward to take his hand.  
  
There is a joint, pained sigh from his parents.  “Oh, Hot Rod,” his father groans.  “Joining up was bad enough, but did you have to pick some – some hulking brute as your _bondmate_?  Have you become so completely one of them?”  
  
“Hey.”  Grimlock has finally had enough.  “Him Rodimus not only Autobot, him _best_ Autobot.  Save planet from Unicron.  If not for him, you not be here.”  Still holding tightly to his mate’s hand, Grimlock brings the other up to point accusingly.  “Me Grimlock think him Rodimus do more good things for Cybertron than you ever do.”  
  
His parents’ optics widen at Grimlock’s speech pattern, then dart to Rodimus; but Rodimus doesn’t apologise, or even attempt an explanation.  Instead, he narrows his gaze and says softly, “You tell ’em, Grim.”  
  
There’s no salvaging the meeting after that, and Rodimus’s parents depart with a few heartbroken backwards looks.  Rodimus flops down on the couch and puts his head in his hands.  A moment later, Grimlock is pulling him into his lap.  
  
“Sometimes,” he muses as he pets Rodimus’s spoiler comfortingly, “him Ratchet get real mad at us Dinobots.  Sometimes just yell; sometimes no speak for days.  But him come back.  Always come back.”  
  
“Yeah, well.  Deep down, Ratchet really loved you all.  I’m not sure…”  His voice cracks and he can’t finish the sentence.  After a moment, he asks, with a note of hysterical cheer, “But hey, I’ve still got you, Grim, right?”  
  
Grimlock keeps petting absently.  “Got me Grimlock.  Got other Dinobots, too.  Him Ratchet right.  You Rodimus family.”  
  
Rodimus lets out a muffled sound that could almost be a sob, but his body relaxes, curling in closer to Grimlock’s and holding tight.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   Grimlock doesn’t take to this idea at all.  He’s used to sleeping in the Dinobots’ massive shared room with its high ceilings, or outside whenever he’s allowed.  He already gets twitchy when he’s sleeping over in Rodimus’s narrow berth; the prospect of living their long-term feels suffocating.  He tells Rodimus in no uncertain terms that while Rodimus might have the fancy, shiny Prime quarters, Grimlock is leader of the Dinobots, and he’s going to stay beside his troops, thank you very much.  (Well, okay, he doesn’t exactly say “thank you very much”, even sarcastically.)  
  
That’s until Rodimus assures him that, no no no, he’s not proposing that Grimlock move in with him; he’s proposing that _he_ move in with _Grimlock._  
  
Rodimus unveils the rough plans he’s drawn up:  it’s a small adjoining room, just off the Dinobots’ berthroom.  “You can recharge with me, or out with your brothers; I don’t mind.  I’m not even sure how often I’ll be coming home.  I just thought, I get so little free time; it’d be nice to spend it with you nearby.”  
  
The Dinosnores keep Rodimus awake for the first few nights, until he learns to adjust, but he quickly trains himself not to hear them.  And after a while, the Dinobots start inviting him to recharge with them in the larger room.  Rodimus can’t help but accept:  after all, there are few things cuter than a big, snuggly heap of razor-fanged death machines. :)  He slumps against Grimlock, who’s resting his head on Snarl’s back and letting his brother’s slow vents soothe him.  
  
Rodimus isn’t surprised to wake up with Grimlock’s tail wrapped protectively around him, but the fact that three other tails (and one wing) are tucked over him as well is unexpected.  For a moment, he contemplates waking them, but he honestly feels too warm and safe to care.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With _Dinosaucers_!  
  
… It was my favourite show as a little kid, okay?  Shut up.  
  
Stranded after a particularly brutal offworld battle, and with their comm. links damaged, Rodimus and Grimock are resigning themselves to a long, _long_ wait to be rescued (well, Rodimus is resigning himself; Grimlock is pitching a fit) when a strange ship lands on the barren surface of the planet.  Rodimus can’t quite believe his optics when a fleshling that looks exactly like a smaller Grimlock wearing a helmet emerges and shouts out, “Bah Weep Graaaagna Wheep Ni Ni Bong!”  
  
Grimlock is over the twin moons of Cybertron at meeting a race of space-faring dinosaurs.  Okay, they’re not robots, but otherwise, they’re just like him!  They understand the sometimes uncomfortable mix of sentience and animal urges that the Dinobots have, until now, had to navigate on their own.  They fight the way he fights.  They don’t think he looks weird (well, except for being made of metal, but Grimlock’s never seen _that_ aspect of himself as anything but normal).  
  
Rodimus, for once, is the fish out of water.  His new allies take to Grimlock immediately, and it’s very clear that Rodimus is only there because he and Grimlock come as a package deal.  It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and one that brings home for Rodimus how Grimlock must often feel alongside the Autobots.  
  

  * **An au of my choice:** I have to do it.  I’ve held off for eighteen pairing memes, but I have to do it.  
  
HIGH SCHOOL AU, BABY!  
  
I REGRET NOTHING.  
  
Grim is the pampered firstborn child of two scientists and star of the football team at a prestigious private academy.  Roddy is the scholarship kid from the wrong side of the tracks, who’s constantly getting in trouble for smoking behind the parking lot/sneaking off campus/drinking in the dorms/going joyriding with his friends from town.  It’s not that he doesn’t care about school; in fact, he desperately wants to do well.  It’s just that he’s impulsive, and the pressure to live up to everything that’s expected of him starts to take its toll.  
  
Roddy thinks Grim is a meathead jock who doesn’t know how lucky he is, and hates himself a little for just how attractive he finds the big lug.  Grim thinks Roddy is a loser who’s wasting academic gifts that Grim would kill to have.  It irritates him no end when Roddy starts hanging out by his locker, flashing insolent blue optics at him through a haze of illicit cygarette smoke as he mock-innocently asks Grim about football practice, and wow, gosh, how _did_ you get so good at throwing yourself on top of men in tight uniform pants?  Grim generally just sneers in response, and stalks off with his teammates.  (Most of them have given each other badass nicknames like “Snarl” and “Swoop” for their prowess on the field.  They call Grim “The King”.)  
  
Underneath his confident exterior, though, Grim has problems.  He’s struggling in class, to the point where his promised college football scholarship is in danger.  And by a crazy coincidence, Roddy has just been hauled into the principal’s office and told that he has to start acting responsibly, or he’s flirting with expulsion.  A little community service would demonstrate his sincerity, and go some way towards making up for the aftermath of his latest adventure, which culminated in crashing a driver’s ed golf kart into the school swimming pool.  How about… tutoring?  
  
Three guesses who his first student is. :)  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_ choice:**   I think it would be interesting to give G1 Grimlock some of the same grandiose ambitions as Grimlock from the Marvel comics.  He’s angling to become Autobot leader himself, and he’s not afraid to be ruthless when it comes to taking down his rivals.  Rodimus has to constantly watch his back around his “ally”.




	20. Rewind and Chromedome (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was an anonymous request on Tumblr. Warnings: Dark!fic includes a character death, so be warned. Bodyswap contains implied mental torture, addiction, and infliction of severe brain damage/mental trauma. The last drabble (“another scenario of your choice”) includes implied torture (nothing graphic) and non-consensual mental invasion. Other warnings: consensual BDSM and roleplay, a little vaguely NSFW content, wanton violence to tables, and gratuitous amounts of Prowl.

  * **Fake dating:**   Rewind is dubious about this mission at first.  The idea of pretending to be in love with his best friend has its appeal – especially since this is hardly the first time Rewind’s thoughts have turned in that particular direction – but realising how severely this is going to embarrass poor, romantically inexperienced Chromedome deflates any enthusiasm Rewind might have had.  Besides, there are more practical problems to consider.  Rewind has no special ops training, and while he knows that Chromedome used to be a cop, he’s spent most of the war holed up in the safety of the New Institute, not infiltrating behind enemy lines.  This whole thing has “disaster” written all over it.  
  
So Rewind gets the shock of his life when he turns up at the Decepticon outpost, with the paint on his false Deceptibrand barely dry:  he’s just facing down a particularly nasty-looking pair of guards when a slender figure with a paintjob of rich, subtle purples and blues saunters into view and drawls, “I’ll take it from here, fellas.”  
  
One of the guards sneers.  “Oh, will you?  You might have security clearance here, Needles, but I don’t recall the commander saying anything about –” he jerks his rifle dismissively, and Rewind suppresses a twitch – “ _this_ one.”  
  
“That’s because I sent for him.”  Chromedome’s voice is smooth as liquid high grade… with just a hint of razor blades lurking at the bottom of the cube.  “He’s here to assist me.”  
  
“And just what the frag is that supposed to mean?”  
  
The sly grin Chromedome gives him is dirtier than Rewind thought he was capable of, and it sends a tingle down the nervous minibot’s backstruts.  But all Chromedome actually says is, “That means his presence isn’t your business.”  
  
“Yeah, right.  I got news for you – everything that comes through that gate  _becomes_ our business.  I don’t care if he’s your mnemosurgery nurse or your mentor or just some frag-toy –”  
  
“Shut  _up,_ ” hisses the second guard, but Chromedome isn’t fazed.  He steps forward – slinks, really – and places a companionable arm around each guard’s shoulders.  
  
“No, no, he’s right.”  He inclines his head towards the first guard.  “How a Decepticon does his job is everybody’s business, right?  We keep an eye on each other, and that keeps the Empire running.”  Chromedome’s voice slides down into a low purr that practically makes Rewind’s fans kick on.  “For instance, I  _know_ Soundwave would love a report on how well you two are doing, and on all the _help_ you’ve given me as his agent here…”  
  
At the mention of the name “Soundwave”, the second guard actually starts trembling, and shoots a pleading look at his companion.  The first guard has his jaw set mulishly, but then he, too, jolts and begins to look nervous.  Rewind guesses that’s because Chromedome has started idly caressing his audial, and the tips of his injectors are poking through – barely visible, but  _very_ obvious to the touch.  
  
“Of course,  _sir_ ,” the first guard brings himself to say.  
  
His comrade jumps in.  “We’re glad to be of help.  We’ll get your, um, associate an access pass, and if there’s anything else you need…?”  The tone is almost hopeful.  
  
“There’s one more thing.  Send a message out on the datanet:  my assistant is to be shown the same respect you’d show to me.  Anyone so much as smudges his plating, and they’ll have me to deal with.”  With that, Chromedome holds out a hand to Rewind.  Rewind’s first impulse is to reach out and take it, but they’re Decepticons now, so instead he nods respectfully and comes trotting forward, following Chromedome’s gesture.  As he passes the guards, Rewind tosses his head and puts a little extra shimmy in his step.  If Chromedome – or, rather, Chromedome’s “character”, he reminds himself – is going to get all possessive over him, the least Rewind can do is look like he’s worth it.  
  
And speaking of looking good – Rewind finds it difficult to keep his optics off Chromedome as they pass a second set of guards, who salute sharply, and enter the Decepticon base.  There isn’t a trace of the anxious bot Rewind knows in the dark, graceful figure swaggering ahead of him.  Only Chromedome’s visor is familiar – all the more so as he pauses in an empty corridor to reach down and squeeze Rewind’s shoulder, and those beloved orange optics flash in amusement before Chromedome straightens.  
  
Against all odds, it seems like he’s actually  _enjoying_ this.  And that is hotter than it has any right to be.  
  
The distracting appeal of Chromedome’s new attitude only gets worse over the next few weeks.  Every time they’re in public, Chromedome is forever finding excuses to touch Rewind:  a guiding touch to the small of the back here, a restraining hand on the arm there, even a single needle extended to stroke carefully over Rewind’s helm, while the needle’s owner watches its path avidly.  When he doesn’t actively have his hands on his “assistant”, Chromedome is practically feeling him up with his gaze, or murmuring in Rewind’s audial in that soft, dangerous purr.  Chromedome isn’t usually very physically affectionate, and he has a bad habit of treating Rewind like something breakable even when he is, so this sudden flood of touch is intoxicating.  Rewind finds that he loves playing up his responses, too:  arching into Chromedome’s hands, sighing, or draping against his “superior’s” plating and shooting smug glances at any other Decepticons who pass.  Yeah, that’s right.   _My_ sexy mnemosurgeon-turned-spy.  Get your own.  
  
All the public displays of affection work beautifully.  The (other) Decepticons snicker behind Chromedome’s back about the mnemosurgeon’s obsession with his assistant, and smirk openly – but don’t object – when he starts taking Rewind to high-level meetings.  
  
Rewind, that is, and Rewind’s camera, and Rewind’s extensively cross-referenced database of suspected Decepticon operatives.  
  
It isn’t long before Rewind is able to submit a detailed dossier exposing half a dozen different Decepticon agents in the Autobot ranks, and he and Chromedome are safely extracted.  Rewind can’t help but feel a slight pang once the mission is over.  It’s not the first time it crosses his mind that he wants to be more than Chromedome’s friend, but it  _is_ the point at which Rewind realises those feelings are too strong to smother forever… and that Chromedome might be able to handle the revelation better than Rewind thought.  
  

  * **Bodyswap:**   There’s the initial shock, of course, but both of them are aware that this could have been so, so much worse.  Waking up swapped with the person next to you at least means that you know where your body is, and that it’s in safe… hands, so to speak.  After all, one of them could have ended up swapped with a Decepticon.  Or Whirl.  
  
As soon as they realise what’s happened, and exchange “tell me something only you would know”s to confirm one another’s identity (Rewind recounts Chromedome’s most recent nightmare; Chromedome recites the last thing Rewind remembers saying to Dominus Ambus), that’s when the bickering starts.  
  
“You telling me I’m stuck in your crummy alt mode?”  
  
“Well, I’m stuck with your lousy morning sparkburn!”  Rewind winces as he presses his – Chromedome’s – fingertips against his spark chamber.  
  
“Hey, I can’t help that.  Born dry!  The casing gets scorched if I recharge wrong.”  
  
“You think I can help my alt?”  
  
“No, but at least the sparkburn  _fades._ ”  
  
Rewind makes a little “pfft” of disdain, and Chromedome’s now-tiny form nearly falls over.  “How did you do that?   _How did you do that?_ I didn’t think I could physically make that sound!”  
  
“I told you the problem was just in your head!”  
  
Still sniping worriedly at each other, they head down to the lab.  Brainstorm is rubbing his hands gleefully, preparing to strap them to his new Cognitive Displacement Relocation Death Ray (“It’s a cognitive relocator  _and_ a death ray, relax, I’ve got the switch on the right setting,” he reassures them when Rewind objects), when Perceptor strides in and puts a stop to the whole enterprise.   _He_ will find a way to put them back in their proper frames, and no death rays (“ _And_ cognitive relocator, Perceptor, it’s like you don’t even listen to me!”) will be required, thank you very much.  But it may take some time.  
  
Rewind shrugs Chromedome’s shoulders.  “Hey, maybe this will bring us closer together.”  Chromedome attempts to swat him on the back of the helm, but only manages to get as far up as his thigh.  
  
In a weird way, Rewind is right… at least at first.  Chromedome certainly gains a new appreciation for what Rewind has to go through every day when he realises how many mecha a) don’t look and b) don’t  _stop_ ; if he’s not running to catch up, he’s dodging his comrades’ (suddenly huge) feet.  The biggest mechs, like Ultra Magnus, are actually the most careful, he finds.  The ones you have to watch out for are the average-sized mecha who are used to being “normal”, and forget that not everyone is their height.  Rewind, meanwhile, has trouble maneuvering Chromedome’s big, gangly frame, and keeps accidentally smacking his arms into doorways, much to his genuine dismay.  It doesn’t help that Chromedome, who’s usually running along behind him, never fails to tsk over the new dents, no matter how faithfully Rewind promises to have them fixed before they switch back.  
  
They do have sex while swapped, but it doesn’t do a whole lot for either of them:  Rewind isn’t such a narcissist that he fantasises about fucking his own body, and Chromedome actively thinks of himself as unattractive.  (He’s always been grateful that Rewind doesn’t share that opinion, but Rewind’s passion for his frame still baffles him.)  It’s educational, though, even if it isn’t particularly hot.  Both of them get an interesting new perspective on what their partner’s body feels like from the inside and how much it can take.  
  
They don’t hide the swap from their friends, but they still find themselves treated rather differently because of it.  It’s tough for Tailgate and Swerve to relax enough to play  _Frag Sparkbond Scrap_ when Chromedome is lounging next to them at the edge of the oil reservoir, even if they know, intellectually, that it’s actually Rewind.  And Chromedome isn’t treated nearly as seriously in his adorably tiny new frame as he is when he’s a lithe former enforcer with needles in his hands.  There are upsides, as well, though; Rewind relishes the potential to be intimidating, and Chromedome is ignored enough that he manages to gather  _so much dirt_ on everyone.  
  
It’s while Chromedome is reviewing the day’s footage that he first starts to delve into Rewind’s archives.  And oh,  _this_ feels amazing.  The flood of mental and sensory data is almost as heady as injecting; in a way, it’s even more enjoyable, because he doesn’t have to have a purpose.  He can let the information rush over him in a wave, giddily chasing individual images or garbled words through the jumble of memories until they’re lost from sight.  It would never be ethical to play in someone’s mind like this, but this isn’t Rewind’s mind.  It isn’t even Rewind’s private memories; those are still locked in his processor, which is currently residing in Chromedome’s head.  These are the recordings Rewind has made for posterity.  They’re _meant_ to be viewed.  
  
So he does.  He loses himself in them for hours at a time, to the point where he misses meals, misses shifts.  Rewind returns to find Chromedome sprawled on the berth with a dreamy look in his visor, as lost to the world as any engex bender has ever left him.  
  
Rewind knows that this is dangerous, but he’s having a hard time concentrating on helping his  _conjunx_ stop binging on Rewind’s archives, when he himself is going through withdrawal from those same archives.  Without his recordings, he feels worn-out and antsy all at once, his mind spinning in dull, pointless circles with no relief.  He can’t even record new memories, and every interesting conversation he has or good joke he hears only makes him more anxious; he can’t stand the idea of those moments being lost.  
  
It’s Swerve who first gives him the idea, one day when they’re relaxing by the reservoir (or trying to relax, at least:  Rewind is having trouble, and Swerve is babbling to cover the fact that he still can’t quite reconcile Chromedome’s face with Rewind’s personality).  “So, if you’ve got the needles, does that mean you can do the…?”  Swerve trails off and waggles his fingers.  
  
“I assume so, yeah.  I mean, I wouldn’t know how to control it.  The training takes years; you can’t just plug in and go.”  
  
“Why?  What would happen?”  
  
“You can end up diving too deep.  Or if the person is trying to fight you off –”  
  
“But what if you stay really shallow on purpose?  And the other guy doesn’t fight, or push you away, or anything?  What would that be like?”  
  
“Swerve?  Do you… want me to try injecting you?  Is that what this is about?”  
  
Swerve blushes, but rallies.  “Well, I’ve always wondered what it feels like.  I mean, it’s got to be really intense, right, to be in someone’s head, or have someone in yours?”  Softly, he adds, “Look, if you don’t want to…”  
  
Rewind lifts his – Chromedome’s – right hand, turning it over slowly.  No sooner does he start wondering how to get the injectors to deploy than they slide free, triggered by the slightest mental twitch.  In the dim light reflecting off the oil’s surface, they gleam.  
  
Well, if Domey can find release in using Rewind’s archive as a substitute for injecting, then maybe…?  
  
It turns out to be easier than he dreamed.  Swerve’s mind  _unfurls_ for him, nervous and eager, and Rewind skims over the surface of his memories.  They stream out below him, not unlike the recordings in his archives, but even more intense:  not only are the emotions interwoven with the sounds and images, but those emotions have a colour and noise of their own.  Thought and sensory input tangle and merge; for a moment, Rewind has the insane thought that he can _taste_  Swerve’s excitement, and that it tastes like trombones and yellow.  Is this what it’s like for Chromedome when he’s inside someone’s head?  Is this why he can’t give it up?  
  
He pauses, tearing his attention away from the memories swirling below him, and waits until the initial flush of sensation fades.  Then he moves tentatively, taking care not to dip below the fast-flowing surface of Swerve’s mind.  However, Rewind does lean in close enough to connect with a particular moment here and there – laughing at Swerve’s first entrance onto the  _Lost Light_ , reliving the opening of the bar through his friend’s optics.  He spots the memory of Swerve shooting Rung.  It would be hard to miss:  so many mental pathways branching and curving back around to that one hub, and the memory itself is burning, giving off a rumbling, orange flavour of heat.  Rewind reaches out a non-corporeal hand and strokes over the tight skin of the memory soothingly.  Swerve’s mind shivers and ripples around him.    
  
Rewind pulls out, worried at the strength of the reaction, but Swerve turns to beam up at him.  Rewind thinks that Swerve’s optics are a little wet behind the visor, but his smile is definitely real.  “That was _awesome_!”  
  
“Yeah.”  Rewind grins back behind Chromedome’s mask.  “Yeah, it was.”  
  
The fix lasts all day and into the next, but after a few more days of begging Chromedome to recharge, dripping energon into his mouth by hand, and trying in vain to yell or cajole or shake him out of his stupor, Rewind finds himself aching for another taste.  Swerve is all too willing, and while Chromedome spends his days locked away with the archive, Rewind starts to spend his with Swerve, diving ever so slightly deeper into his memories each time.  
  
Swerve loves the attention, but even though Rewind is eager to branch out and sample other people’s memories, no one else on the _Lost Light_ is willing to volunteer.  Not so surprising on a ship full of secrets (although even Tailgate scurries away at the suggestion, and Rewind doesn’t know what  _he_ could possibly have to hide), but frustrating, all the same.  So it’s a pleasant surprise when Skids shows up at his door, even if Rewind is wary at first.  
  
It’s just a case of unfinished business, Skids explains.  Chromedome was helping him recover his memories, but the body swap put that on hold.  Since Swerve tells him that Rewind has started working with the needles, maybe he’d be willing to pick up where Chromedome left off…?  Skids works the wide, pretty optics, the quivering lower lip.  It hurts to be without those memories.  Feels like a part of him is missing.  Surely, Rewind can understand?  
  
He can – and so he doesn’t ask questions, although he knows he should.  Instead, he promises Skids a session, and sets out to read as much as he can about mnemosurgery and the theory of memory restoration before then.  He also tries, repeatedly, to ask Chromedome about Skids’s situation, but Chromedome only stirs and blinks vaguely at him before his visor dims, and he’s gone again.  
  
What finally does wake Chromedome up is Rodimus screaming over the comm. for him to get down to the oil reservoir,  _now, Chromedome, Primus dammit!_   Chromedome staggers to his feet – what time is it?  What day? – and runs, cursing his tiny frame the whole time.  When he arrives, Rewind is curled into a ball, sobbing hysterically.  That brings Chromedome up short before anything else does.  He’s never seen Rewind like this, not even when he was at the relinquishment centre, wailing over the loss of his best friend; Rewind has been Chromedome’s rock as long as they’ve known each other.  Chromedome suddenly feels cold.  
  
And then he makes out the words between the sobs –  _I’m sorry, so sorry –_ even as he finally spots Skids, sprawled on the floor, half-hidden behind three frantic medics.  His body is convulsing while First Aid and Ambulon try to hold him down.  Ratchet is barking orders for hardline connectors and grounding modules.  Chromedome circles to peer around Ratchet’s legs, and recoils:  Skids’s eyes are whited out, sparking with excess energy, as a thin trickle of oral lubricant escapes the corner of his gaping mouth.  His vocaliser spits static, followed by a sudden shriek that doesn’t even sound Cybertronian – more like the scream of metal grinding against metal.  
  
Chromedome doesn’t even have to see the way Rewind is cradling his right hand, which still has the injectors out, to piece together what’s happened.  
  
“Can you fix him?” Rodimus demands.  
  
“I – I don’t know.  Not until I get inside his head.”  It’s a lie – Chromedome can tell when a mech is gone – but maybe this way, he’ll at least get a chance to try.  Then he can bear some of the blame for failing to repair Skids, so that they don’t think all the fault lies with… with…  
  
Chromedome carefully averts his gaze from his own body, still crying by the edge of the oil, as Ratchet and the others carry Skids out.  Rodimus and Drift follow.  And then it’s just the two of them, and Rewind’s sobs are the only sound.  
  
For the longest time, Chromedome can’t go to him, can’t even look at him.  Not after seeing that expression on Skids’s face.  
  
But inch by inch, he turns, and makes himself cross the floor to kneel next to his  _conjunx._ Spooning someone three times your height is awkward, but Rewind always managed it in the past, so Chromedome does the best he can.  
  
They lie like that without speaking.  Eventually, Chromedome offers the only comfort he can.  
  
“When I get my needles back, I can make this memory go away.”  
  
Rewind shudders in his arms, but it takes him a minute to answer.  “No, Domey.  Promise – promise me you won’t ask that again.”  
  
 _Because next time,_ he doesn’t have to add,  _the answer might be yes.  
  
_
  * **Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it:**   Chromedome is all the awkward about this.  It’s not that he’s never thought about it; quite the opposite, in fact.  But he already feels intensely, almost cripplingly grateful for Rewind’s cheerfully persistent friendship, and taking things further has always seemed like too much to ask.  On the one hand, having Rewind suddenly pressed up against him, venting raggedly, the heat pouring off his plating, seems like a dream come true.  On the other, Chromedome is terrified of hurting him – or disappointing him.  
  
Not that Rewind isn’t worried about much the same thing.  Chromedome can be awfully fragile under the tough exterior.  But seeing Chromedome like this – shaking, needy, just on the edge of becoming undone – is not only ludicrously hot, but it awakens every protective instinct Rewind has.  He wants to look after Chromedome even more than he wants to frag him.  
  
Rewind pushes Chromedome down onto the edge of the berth and stands between his knees, stroking them soothingly, his visor bright with excess charge.  “Well, Domey, I guess we don’t have a lot of choice, do we?”  His tone is rueful, but there’s a faint note of hope underlying it.  “Might as well enjoy ourselves.”  
  
Chromedome nods reluctantly, his plating rattling even under the gentle touch.  “Listen – ”  His engines hiccup as Rewind’s fingers start tracing a seam in his thigh, but he recovers, trying to sound calm.  “How do you want this to go?  You spiking me, or – I don’t know if the other way would…”  
  
“Mmm, I’d love to spike you, if you want that.”  Rewind swings himself up to straddle Chromedome’s leg, and turns his attention to outlining those ear finials, retracting his mask so that he can lap at one.  “Want to use my hands on you, and my mouth… But we got time to figure it out.”  He can feel the way that his licks are making Chromedome’s engines purr, and he regretfully pulls back, taking a moment to nuzzle his friend instead.  “Why don’t you lie back?  Let me take care of you.”  
  
Feeling lightheaded, Chromedome twines his fingers with Rewind’s – Rewind’s hand a familiar small weight in his – and lets himself fall.  He lies still for a long moment, vents panting harshly, as Rewind moves skillfully over his plating, teasing a wire here, a node cluster there.  Eventually, Chromedome’s own hands come up to return the favour, slender fingertips digging into every one of Rewind’s seams.  The injectors slide out, just slightly, to scratch over hidden nodes, and Rewind moans shamelessly.  
  
The touches are as much about reassurance as arousal; the pollen already has them so revved up that they barely need any encouragement.  And sure enough, once they realise that they can really touch without breaking each other, neither of them lasts very long.  The second round is more languid, the gradually rising charge more like a pleasant background buzz than an all-consuming  _need._  
  
Later – much later – they lie with Rewind’s helm pillowed against Chromedome’s stomach, their hands still interlinked.  Chromedome’s fingers tickle Rewind’s still-sensitised camera mount, making him squirm and huff.  
  
“This might be the weirdest thing I’m ever gonna say,” Rewind begins, “but  _thank Primus for sex pollen._ ”  
  
“Oh, Rewind,” Chromedome sighs, curling his body around him.  “You’ve said weirder slag than that.”  His friend – his lover, now, as strange and exciting as that is to remember – nudges his head against Chromedome’s side, and laughs.  
  

  * **Dark!fic:**   “Rewind doesn’t like you.”  
  
“I’m devastated.”  
  
“No, you don’t understand, Prowl.  It’s not that Rewind doesn’t like you – I mean, he doesn’t, but that’s not what –”  
  
“Come to the point, Chromedome.”  
  
“He doesn’t like  _us_.  What we were to each other.”  
  
“‘What we were.’  You can’t even say it?”  
  
“…”  
  
“Never mind.  So, your skinny little friend is jealous –”  
  
“Don’t call him that.  And for your information, he’s going to be my _conjunx endura._ If he accepts; I’m going to ask him tonight.”  
  
“Huh.  I suppose I should have seen that coming.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.  So why are you telling me this?”  
  
“He’s… concerned.  You’re the only other person I’ve ever been with –  _what?_ ”  
  
“ _Nothing._ ”  
  
“He thinks I’m still hung up on you.”  
  
“… Of course you aren’t.”   _Are you?  
  
_ “That’s what I told him.  But, you see… if I’m going to ask him to share my life, then I owe it to him to prove it.”  
  
“What is that supposed… to… Chromedome, put that down.  Put it _down._ ”  
  
“I need to show him that he’s the  _only_ one.  You understand?”  
  
“Chromedome –  _Tumbler._ Tumbler, please don’t do this.  Look, I’ll – I’ll talk to him.  Or I’ll give you two a mission that will take you far away, together.  You’ll never have to see my face again.  But you have no idea what will happen to the Autobots if you do this.  Just – put the gun down.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Prowl.  I need him.”  
  
“Tumbler, please!”  
  
-  _bang -_


  * **Secret kinks:**   Rewind is dominant as all hell, whether he’s topping or not.  He loves tying Chromedome up and having his way with him, but also digs lying back and instructing Chromedome in how to please him.  It’s – ahem – [not Chromedome’s first time at the rodeo](1987368) when it comes to subbing, and he finds it both hot and soothing to give up control and be told what to do.  Both Chromedome and Rewind find the accoutrements of Chromedome’s former job sexy, and they spend quite a few evenings playing Bad Cop with Chromedome’s old cuffs (usually with Rewind as the arresting officer ;)).  
  
Rewind is also fond of energon play; that’s energon as in food, not energon as in blood.  It’s a kink he developed during his time with Dominus Ambus.  Ambus giving up a portion of his own fuel for Rewind was an act of tremendous affection and intimacy, and Rewind came to associate food with love because of it.  He loves having Chromedome feed him, or vice versa.  Chromedome both loves that it provides him with a way to “offer” energon to Rewind as a token of how much he cares (since he’s got no innermost energon to give away), and feels wistful because it’s so close to the innermost-energon ceremony that he _isn’t_  able to give Rewind.  
  
Chromedome’s top kink is sharing minds with his partner via a hardline connection, but he also gets a forbidden thrill out of establishing that connection directly by using his injectors during sex.  Rewind actually enjoys the sensation, but puts strict limits on how often he’s willing to participate, and refuses outright if Chromedome’s been injecting elsewhere; he’s always walking that line, trying to support/police Chromedome to keep his addiction in check.  However the mental connection is accomplished, it tends to be deep and mutual, and is one of the few cases where Chromedome is willing to open up his own mind to someone else.  
  
While neither of them have an unmasking kink, they both genuinely enjoy the comfort of knowing they  _can_ take their masks off without it being a big deal.  
  

  * **Their first kiss:**   Rewind is so tempted, so many times.  The first time Chromedome leans wearily against his side and nuzzles his mask against Rewind’s neck, as if he’s trying, against all logic, to wrap himself up in the minibot and hide.  The night Rewind is first woken up by Chromedome’s thrashing and yelling from across the barracks, and goes racing over to find Chromedome blinking himself awake, his visor pale and dazed, his plating rattling pathetically as he shivers.  That one time when Chromedome is recounting the story of his first mnemosurgery patient while sprawled across Rewind’s feet, and Rewind is rubbing his shoulders, and the delicate wires at the back of Chromedome’s neck are  _right there,_ bare and practically begging for him to lean down and brush his mouth softly over them…  
  
But Rewind knows how lonely Chromedome is.  He’s not afraid Chromedome will reject him; that would hurt like the Pit, but he could take it.  What would be worse would be if Chromedome  _let_ him, as some kind of twisted payment for Rewind’s continued friendship, without ever saying that out loud.  So, no breaking down and kissing him at his most vulnerable, even if it is just for comfort, and even if every bolt in Rewind’s body creaks with the strain of holding himself back.  
  
When they finally do kiss, it’s, oddly enough, because of Prowl.  The fact that Prowl would be  _enraged_ to know that is just the energon icing on the goodie, in Rewind’s opinion. :)  
  
Chromedome and Rewind are crossing the shuttle bay, waiting to board a transport to their next posting, when they hear shouting from the far side of the room.  A shuttle captain has stopped loading cargo and is cowering back against a stack of crates while Prowl advances on him, waving a datapad and unleashing a verbal tirade so nasty that it’s a wonder the boxes behind the captain don’t burst into flame.  
  
What Prowl doesn’t realise is that the crates are on top of a wheeled platform, which was positioned exactly underneath a loading claw that was picking them up one by one to put them on the shuttle.  In his desperation to get away from his furious superior officer, though, the captain has been pressing back against the crates… which is causing the platform to inch backwards… meaning that Prowl has to keep stepping forwards to close the gap… which brings him directly under the claw as it descends.  
  
The tongue-lashing turns into an angry squawk as the claw closes around Prowl’s waist and hoists him up in the air, where he dangles, legs kicking frantically.  In unison, Chromedome and Rewind burst out laughing – then Chromedome grabs Rewind’s hand and pulls him out of sight behind a shuttle before Prowl can spot them.  
  
Chromedome slumps against the side of the craft and slides down to sit on the floor, still giggling helplessly, while Rewind collapses against him, vents wheezing.  When he lifts his head, Chromedome has grown quiet, but he’s watching Rewind with a warm glow in his visor that would be a grin on anyone else.  
  
And  _that’s_ when Rewind, spark racing, retracts his mask and kisses Chromedome.  
  
For a klick, Chromedome is unnervingly still under him, and Rewind is afraid he’s made an awful mistake… and then he can feel Chromedome’s mask slide away, just as both of the larger mech’s arms come up to cradle him.  
  
They miss their shuttle, but neither of them seem to mind.  
  

  * **Meeting the parents:**   Rewind’s a good deal older than Chromedome, and his parents are long gone – long enough that Rewind has made peace with the loss, and is able to focus on his happier memories of them.  While Chromedome will never get the chance to see them face-to-face, he feels like he’s “met” them through Rewind’s footage and stories.  By now, Chromedome regularly quotes Mama Rewind’s wisdom without realising he’s doing it, and he can recite Papa Rewind’s favourite jokes perfectly.  Rewind still feels a little wistful; he’s sure his parents would have loved Chromedome.  But he’s glad that he’s able to share what they were like, even a little bit.  And having his  _conjunx_ scold him in his mother’s words feels strangely like coming home.  
  
Rewind’s brother, though, is still very much alive.  This fact is impressed on Chromedome rather forcefully when they’re first introduced, and Chromedome suddenly finds himself grabbed by the wrist and yanked down so that he’s optic-to-optic with Rewind’s exact double, in a slightly lighter paintjob, who’s cracking his knuckles ominously.  
  
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Eject growls, and Chromedome frantically pushes all thoughts even vaguely related to  _threesome_ _!_ _threesome!_ out of his processor.  The minibot continues, “You’re thinkin’, ‘He’s tiny, what could he possibly do to me?’  Well, lemme tell ya, buddy:  you hurt my bro,  _ever,_ and tiny or not, I will shove a plasma cannon so far up your aft you’ll be able to taste it.  Clear?”  
  
Chromedome nods, wishing to Primus that he didn’t find this so inappropriately  _hot._ “Clear.”  
  
“As for that  _other_ thing you were thinkin’,” Eject murmurs evilly in his audio, just as Rewind is striding over to rescue his boyfriend, “if you’re good, we might just be able to arrange it.  Wouldn’t be the first time ’Wind and I double-teamed someone for a triple touchdown.”  
  
Chromedome doesn’t even know what that  _means,_ and yet it fuels his fantasies for years afterwards.  
  
Rewind does get the chance to meet Chromedome’s folks, who are living and pitching in with engineering work at an Autobot resettlement camp far from the front lines – but before they go, Chromedome lays a placating hand on Rewind’s shoulder and says, “There’s something you should know about my parents.  They’re… well, they’re still a little hung up on Pr– on my last relationship.”  
  
Rewind frowns.  “You mean they’re not going to think I’m good enough compared to him?”  The thought carries some unpleasant echoes; he remembers being seated between Dominus Ambus’s parents in their stately dining room, watching the horrified looks they exchanged over his head.  
  
“No, hey – they’re gonna  _love_ you!  Just… give them a little time, okay?”  Under his mask, it’s clear that Chromedome’s face is flushing hotly.  “I mean, Prowl – they – they kind of adopted him.  When we started dating, he was pretty much all alone, and my parents are like that.  Big-sparked, y’know?  I don’t know whether they ever really got over the idea that he wasn’t going to be their son-in-law.  My mom still  _calls_ him, if you can believe that.”  Chromedome had stopped speaking to his parents for a month when he found out.  “So if it comes up, just remember that it’s not about you; he’s just become another one of the damned stray turbofoxes they keep taking in.”  
  
As it turns out, the warning is unnecessary (about Prowl, at least; there  _are_ about half a dozen rescued turbofoxes in the backyard, all of whom pile into the guest bedroom and try to snuggle between Chromedome and Rewind the first night).  Chromedome’s parents practically fall all over Rewind the second he arrives.  They get a kick out of his stories, devour all the footage he shows them of his and Chromedome’s adventures, and, once they realise how much he appreciates good fuel (not having had enough for much of his life), they dedicate most of the weekend to feeding him.  Rewind is startled – sure, he’s good at making friends, but Chromedome’s family seemed to love him before they even met him!  Which is exactly the case, as Chromedome’s mother explains over a hot cup of energon as they sit up late chatting one night.  
  
“There’s been such a change in him since he met you,” she says, cradling Rewind’s cheek affectionately.  “For the longest time, we’d only get the most bare-bones letters home –  _I’m alive, I can’t tell you where I’m posted, hope you’re doing okay._ And then even those stopped, and we were afraid…”  She trails off, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the table.  Rewind can fill in the blanks himself, and bites his tongue, resolving never to let her know exactly how close Chromedome was to making her fears come true.  “But all of a sudden, this long message arrives, all about the new friend he’s made, and ever since then, we’ve been hearing more and more about his life.  Just little things, you know:  the food in the mess hall, a joke someone told him.  But it means the world to us, sweetspark.”  She sighs.  “Tumbler… he’s got a tough path to walk.  But I read his letters now, and seeing him today – I think he’s happy, really happy.  We can’t thank you enough for that, Rewind.”  
  
Ever after that visit, Rewind keeps sending them recordings of Chromedome’s life – messages that he bugs Chromedome to record, tours of their new quarters every time they’re reassigned, interviews with their bemused comrades.  Every one of them is carefully tucked away to be watched again and again.  
  
However, Chromedome isn’t wrong about his parents still being in touch with his ex.  He’s just wrong about the reason.  The truth is, Prowl was the only person Chromedome’s mother and father knew they could turn to the first time Chromedome came home for a visit after losing his  _conjunx endura,_ and not only didn’t seem upset, but pointed to the framed photo of himself and Scattergun on his parents’ mantelpiece and asked in all innocence, “Who’s that?”  
  
So, late at night after Chromedome and Rewind’s visit has ended, the office of the Autobot second-in-command gets a call on a private line.  
  
“Prowl here – yes.  Fine, thank you.  And how are – yes.  Yes, I know.  He’s got a new one.  Rewind.  I’ve got the file here.  What does that…?  I see.  I can try, but you know I can’t promise anything.  I kept the other three as far away from combat as I could, too, but it didn’t save them.  Maybe… no, shh, I’m sorry.  I do understand.  I’ve already got them both stationed as far behind the front line as possible.  I’m only saying that there are no guarantees in war.  Yes, I’ve noticed that he seems happier, too.  It  _is_ an improvement.  You’re welcome.  Take care of yourselves.”  
  
Prowl thoughtfully toggles the switch to end the communication, then turns around and flips over the table.  
  

  * **Moving in together:**   “Primus,  _those_ are going to have to go.”  
  
“What?  I  _like_ my processor probes, thank you very much!  They’re more than eight million years old.  Took me ages to track those down.”  
  
“They’re creepy as the Pit, is what they are.  Is that what they used to use before injectors were invented?”  
  
“Uh-huh.  See, you put this end into the subject’s processor, like so –”  
  
“ _Domey!_ Domey.  I’ll take your word for it, okay?  All right, fine, if those are special – but do you have to hang them above the couch?”  
  
“You’d prefer above the berth?”  
  
 _“Eurgh.”  
  
_ “I’d be taking that reaction more seriously if it didn’t come from a mech carting  _a box of snuff films_ into my quarters.”  
  
“ _Our_ quarters.  And it’s not a whole box, there’s other stuff in this box.”  
  
“P –ppp –pppppp…”  
  
“ _Pfft._   I think maybe you gotta open your lips a little more?”  
  
“Argh.  Get it one of these days, I swear.  Okay, fair enough, there’s other stuff in the box – just like there’s other stuff in the ten  _other_ boxes you’ve already got stacked up in there.  Why do you hang onto all this slag, Rewind?  I mean, you’ve got the recordings of everything that’s ever happened to you.  Why do you need keepsakes, too?”  Chromedome sounds more curious than irritated.  His quarters have always been sparsely decorated.  In fact, apart from the few pieces he’s kept of his historical mnemosurgery collection – objects from a time he  _never_ experienced, not mementos from times he did – he has virtually no personal possessions.  If Chromedome’s quarters weren’t so much bigger, it would make far more sense to move him into Rewind’s room.  It would only take one trip across the base.  
  
Rewind sets the new box down next to the others, then hops onto the largest one and kicks his heels, thinking.  “Because I can’t touch the recordings,” he says finally.  “Sometimes, it’s nice to have a bit of that memory you can hold.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“I guess you just never felt that way, Domey?”  Rewind gestures to Chromedome’s computer terminal.  “I mean, you don’t even keep pictures.”  
  
Chromedome frowns behind his mask.  He knows here was a file of photos at one point… but now that he thinks of it, most of the old stuff from before his mechaforensics career was wiped when he was accepted onto the force, because he didn’t want his old life intruding on the new.  And pretty much every keepsake he collected during his mechaforensics days ended up in the box he shipped to Prowl when they broke up.  (If it were anyone else, Chromedome would assume that they were long since burned or erased, but knowing Prowl, they were probably meticulously and angrily catalogued and filed somewhere.)  Since then, well… “Not much point after I got the needles,” he tells Rewind.  “Why take pictures when I can just go inside my own head and relive any memory I want, any time?”  
  
“That’s not really true, though, is it?” Rewind asks gently.  “Any memory, sure, but it’s not just the ones you want, when you want them – it’s all of them at once.  Everyone’s.  Maybe if you had a few things around to remind you of the good times – the times that are _yours_ – you’d find it easier to resist the bad memories.”  
  
They’re both lost in thought for a moment, and then Rewind beckons to his partner.  “C’mere.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just get over here.”  When Chromedome does, Rewind detaches his camera and holds it at arm’s length, aiming it at their faces.  The resulting photo is of the style Rewind terms “spontaneous”, and Chromedome refers to by the technical name “completely slagging terrible” – the bottom part of Rewind’s mask is cut off as he desperately cranes to be in the same frame as his larger partner, and the peace sign he’s throwing up partly obscures Chromedome’s startled visor.  But Rewind captions it “Moving Day!” and sets it as the wallpaper on his terminal, and more than once, he catches Chromedome stopping to gaze at it.  Occasionally, he’ll reach out and ghost his fingertips over the surface of the screen, lingering over Rewind’s face.  
  
Seeing this, Rewind concocts a plan.  He rifles through his own archives first, gathering material, and then he goes to Brainstorm, who helps him get in touch with the rest of the gang from back in the day – Hardhead, Highbrow.Rewind contacts them with a simple request.  It actually proves trickier than he’ll ever realise, as Chromedome’s friends know they have to be careful about the images they select, skipping or cropping any that include Scattergun, Mach, or Pivot.  Every one of them ends up finding at least a few to send to Rewind, though.  
  
When Chromedome walks into their quarters a few days later, he stops dead.  On the far wall – not on computer displays, but lovingly printed onto thin, expensive metal sheeting – are some two dozen pictures, arranged as a collage with “Moving Day!” right in the centre.  There are group shots of Chromedome with his friends from the New Institute; selfies of Rewind; candid pictures of Chromedome stretched out on the roof of the base the last time they went stargazing.  Chromedome ends up earnestly thanking Rewind, but the real thanks comes in the form of the minute scratches that develop on the surface of the moving day picture, because Chromedome brushes it with his fingertips just about every time he passes.  
  

  * **A crossover of my choice:**   With the Batman-verse/ _Gotham Central_ , although more for the setting than the characters.  Chromedome is a jaded, overworked cop seconded to the mayor’s office.  He knows that the mayor and the city council are deeply corrupt, but the job has beaten him down to the point where he can’t bring himself to care… that is, until one day, when an intrepid reporter turns up in the lobby and tries to ambush the mayor with questions about a recent scandal.  Chromedome has the unpleasant task (well, okay, a  _little_ pleasant, for reasons that have more to do with the appealing visual than with politics ;)) of hauling the journalist away in cuffs.  He finds himself reluctantly impressed with his prisoner’s determination, as the reporter – Rewind, he calls himself – tries to grill Chromedome about the scandal, even from his jail cell.  It feels good to have someone to finally unburden himself to, and Chromedome spills more than is wise about his boss’s secrets.  The next thing he knows, Rewind is out of jail and back on the case, and starts following Chromedome around, insisting on more information.  Torn between his job on the one hand, and a clean conscience (and a wide, pleading blue visor) on the other, Chromedome struggles, but he can’t hold out.  He ends up becoming Rewind’s inside source, while still having to keep up the public front of hating him and constantly threatening him with arrest.  Rewind takes a strange joy in provoking him, to the point where he sometimes almost dares Chromedome to slap the cuffs on him.  
  
Eventually, Chromedome does some digging of his own, and finds out that Rewind started his investigation by inquiring into the disappearance of his husband, one Dominus Ambus.  His quest has led him to uncover startling ties between the mafia family who seem to have taken Ambus and the elected rulers of the city.  Chromedome is more hurt than he can easily explain when he finds out that Rewind is married (that is, if Ambus is still alive), but he decides to help anyway.  
  
But when Rewind is kidnapped by the mafia, too, can Chromedome save him?  
  

  * **An au of my choice:**   Another Victorian AU, since my first one turned out to be [very](http://rothinsel.tumblr.com/tagged/Cliffs-of-Delphi) [popular](http://greyliliy.tumblr.com/tagged/cliffs-of-delphi). :) Miss Rewind’s agency sends her out to be a secretary to the reclusive Professor Chromedome at his remote and forbidding estate on the moors.  The professor is a brooding, unhappy man, prone to disappearing for months at a time on exotic expeditions, and his house is full of strange artefacts and ancient tomes in indecipherable languages.  Many would find the place disquieting, but Miss Rewind, with her natural curiosity and hunger for stories, dives right in to learning all she can about the vast collection – and its mysterious owner.  Professor Chromedome takes a liking to the bright, optimistic young woman, and she slowly begins to draw him out of his shell, finding out about the things he’s seen on his travels that still haunt his nightmares.  
  
But a dark cloud hangs over their blossoming romance.  Rewind doesn’t pay much attention at first to the nasty hints dropped by the caustic, haughty Miss Prowl, one of the professor’s inner circle, who’s said to have been in love with him since she was only a girl.  But when the professor’s eccentric but good-natured friend Dr. Brainstorm starts repeating the same rumours, Rewind begins to worry.  If Professor Chromedome really was married three times before, why does he refuse to speak about any of his wives?  Why did they all disappear so mysteriously?  
  
And what are the unearthly noises that emerge on moonless nights from the locked attic of the manor house?  
  

  * **If you like, another trope/scenario of _your_  choice:** I would  _love_ to see Autobot Rewind and Deceptidome. ;)  Chromedome already skates pretty close to the moral edge, and there are a number of things – his belief that your alt mode shouldn’t determine your destiny; his anger when he discovers the Senate’s corruption; his frustration in “Shadowplay” that he’s been able to rise as high as mechaforensics, but is still shut out of mnemosurgery by the existing system, despite his ambition and passion – that could easily make him sympathetic to the Decepticon cause.  It wouldn’t take much for Chromedome to wind up as, say, Soundwave’s protégé instead of Trepan’s.  He’d probably rise to become a high-profile interrogator.  
  
It wouldn’t take very long for Chromedome to lose or bury any softness he once had.  Decepticons don’t admit to occasional bursts of compassion for their subjects, and they don’t get gently rocked awake from nightmares.  What they do get – what Chromedome comes to crave – are nearly endless opportunities to stretch the limits of their skills, and test out new techniques on a wide variety of helpless subjects.  
  
And then, one day, one of the subjects thrown to the Decepticon interrogator is a little blue-plated minibot… a smart, mouthy little thing who has him immediately intrigued.  He doesn’t approach the prisoner right away, though, oh, no.  First, he lets him stew for a bit.  Lets him watch some of his fellow Autobots meet their rather grisly fates under the hands of Chromedome’s less subtle apprentices.  
  
When the little ’Bot is shivering in the corner, watching the Decepticons drag yet another prisoner’s body away, Chromedome strolls up behind him and puts an almost gentle hand on his shoulder.  “The worse the death,” he murmurs, “the more painful the memories.”  
  
The prisoner cringes; but then he straightens up, and looks Chromedome square in the visor.  It’s an effort for Chromedome not to smile, seeing that.  “Who are you?”  
“They call me Chromedome.”  He enjoys watching the tiny mech’s gaze widen in terror at the name.  
  
“Wh-why are you here?”  
  
Chromedome flicks out his needles.  “You know why I’m here.”  
  
The minibot – Rewind, Chromedome soon learns – actually rallies to try and fight the invasion of his mind.  It’s almost endearing.  Chromedome barely slows, of course, slicing perfect incisions through Rewind’s mental defences and extracting everything he wants.  Afterwards, he tilts his head, studying the little ’Bot while wiping off his injectors.  
  
“All that information you’ve got in there.  All that war history.  You have to realise that it all points to one thing.  The Decepticons are going to win; it’s inevitable.  Why would someone with all your knowledge try to stand against us?”  
  
Rewind looks up blearily as the guards reach down to drag him off to his execution, and answers the question with one of his own.  “And if you do win?  Do you think your nightmares will finally stop, then?”  
  
Chromedome’s fuel suddenly runs cold in his veins.  An insanely lucky guess, or did Rewind somehow slip past his guard and force his way into Chromedome’s side of the connection?   _How did he get into Chromedome’s head?  
  
_ He gestures to the guards to leave Rewind where he is, and barely manages to keep his composure long enough to tell the prisoner he’ll be back tomorrow.  Then he flees, locking the door to his quarters and collapsing against it, one hand – injectors still out – trailing down his face.  
  
Oh, he’s going to need a  _lot_ more time with this one…



**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Be With Me.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017467) by [BossBot97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BossBot97/pseuds/BossBot97)




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